


Ceeli

by LCWells, Maggie_Nowakowska



Series: Star Wars [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Nowakowska/pseuds/Maggie_Nowakowska
Summary: Ceelie Montasi was Mon Mothma's chief aide before Mothma escaped to the Alliance. She was picked up and interrogated after Mon Mothma's escape (in For The Good Of The Galaxy.) Can she be saved from the Empire?





	

**Author's Note:**

> When you rebel against an Empire, there's collateral damage. I decided that it was necessary to show the personal human damage that is caused when someone as powerful as Mon Mothma, ex-Senator, rebels. 
> 
> The ultimate damage, of course, was the destruction of Alderaan.
> 
> The character of Ceeli Montasi was first written by Maggie Nowakowska and is part of her universe. We wrote this story in 2007 and revised it over the next 2 years. This personal parts of this story was heavily written by Maggie while I wrote the plotting and action.

“We need to know this, Captain Amman. This matter has to be settled—and clearly to all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You understand your orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew him before he came here, Captain. Therefore, you should be able to tell whether or not Major Madine is a spy for the Empire or really with us.” The gaunt man repeated himself. “This raid will provide the truth.”

The soldier’s gaze—pinned on the wall behind his superiors at the first word of his mission—lowered to look into the eyes of the woman in white sitting opposite him, watching him, paying no attention to the officer beside her. “I will do what is necessary, Commander.”

She said, “Then you are dismissed, Captain.”

The solider turned on his heel and left.

“Well.” The man sat back with a satisfied nod and swung his chair about to face the woman. “I am glad you’ve agreed on this. Madine has to —”

“Crix Madine nearly succeeded in killing the Emperor. He has an Imperial death mark on him for that, Issahm, and for saving my life. He is not a spy, or a plant.” Mon Mothma of Chandrila, the Commander of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, and former Senator, stared at her Chief of Intelligence and Security until he straightened and absently cleared the status controls lighting his desktop. “As you have said,” she continued after a long breath to quiet her temper, “this raid will prove that to everyone.” Still, her voice hardened as she stood. “Including you.”

She left without waiting for an answer.

*****

“A risky plan," Issahm commented.

The soldiers standing at ease, opposite the Alliance general in the narrow briefing room, said nothing. Everything about this mission rested on the decision of the man in the poorly fitted uniform and it could go either way, even at this late stage, depending on whether he liked who presented it.

Which is why former Imperial Special Forces, and recent convert to the Rebellion, Major Crix Madine stood behind the team leader, a Mon Calamari major named Quinx.

 _Do it, you slug,_ Madine thought behind his impassive expression. _Issahm, this will enhance the rebellion’s reputation, spit in the eye of the Fleet and free a lot of the Alliance political prisoners. We've even set it up that the escapees will go to one of the Rim worlds, far from any Imperials. Put your fingerprint on the plan. Let us go._

With the General showing resistance to suggestions from Madine from day one, Quinx had agreed to submit the proposal. As Issahm mulled the options, Madine went over the plan and couldn't see any flaws, except failure. The regional Imperial governor had made a mild push for more security, yes. Fleet, however, was riding the long tail of its victory on Hoth by hunting bigger prey. such as the ship on which Madine stood, the RSS ALDERAAN, where Mon Mothma and others constructed far larger battle plans. _This raid would prove to the galaxy that the Rebellion still existed and could sting._

__The prison ship and escorts were going to be target practice; something Madine was adept at—from the other side, hunting rebels._ _

_I know the Imperial flaws, Issahm._ He indulged his impatience, knowing his game face was as secure as the scheme. _Use me; use the plan, you cretin._

__"You're sure,” Issahm hesitated, his finger tapping at the edge of the desktop display, “that this prison transport is coming?"_ _

__The man had inherited the mantle of Intelligence and Security chief after the Hoth debacle, and despite his inadequacies, no one had replaced him._ _

__Yet._ _

Major Quinx tipped his carapace with precise deference. "The report from Chandrila to Admiral Ackbar said that the last set of political prisoners were to be sent out this week, General." He added, “The list includes Alderaani prisoners that Fleet has rounded up, as well as others they claim are related to us.”

Issahm looked up sharply.

Quinx was more insightful than Madine thought; he never would have played the lost-planet card.

"From Alderaan? " Hunger for news of his own kind rumbled in Issham’s voice. “Do you know who they are?”

"No, sir," Quinx said. "Our contact couldn't provide a list. He did say that they were important.”

"Ah! I think that…” But the general never could forget that something might go wrong. He considered the glowing desktop and frowned. “You’re sure this will work, Quinx?” Issahm quibbled at last, waving the figures dark. "We don't have many fighters."

And their pilots are fighting to be part of this raid, Madine complained. They’re bored, in case you haven’t noticed.

Quinx nodded. "Yes, sir. We have the transports as well."

And again, the general considered.

“I see...” Finally, he looked up, his attention focused noticeably on Quinx. “We'll survive if it fails,” he observed, unable to resist a nod to disaster.

 ___No you won’t,_ __ Madine argued. _ __This has to go right. The Emperor’s latest proclamations and insinuations are calling you pirates._ __ Which made Madine feel far more incensed than he let on. He knew pirates; he’d hunted them down for years.

___I may be a rebel now, but I’ll kill myself before I turn pirate._ _ _

Issahm stood in dismissal. “I'm not stupid, gentlemen,” he finished briskly and with the first flash of passion Madine had ever seen in the man, “I know who built this mission. Command thinks it's a good plan. I think it’s risky to an extreme. Go ahead.”

The team stiffened into attention. Major Quinx saluted, turned his team about precipitously and left.

*****

Good news traveled fast. At the bays, the pilots were already cheering when the team arrived. Before they found themselves deep into the hullabaloo, Quinx pulled Madine back a step. "The general’s politicking is distasteful,” said the calamari. “This is your mission, Major, even if I'm leading it. Don't hold back."

Madine grinned broadly. "I never did before. I won't here.”

*****

**On the I.S.S Tarpon**

She screamed as she hit the metal floor hard, palms, knees, then the right side of her face stinging with pain. She heard the automatic door shut behind her and she froze. Was anyone was in the room with her? No sounds. Nothing. The Alderaani woman sat up slowly, hearing only her own rough breath. Sanity, abused for days without end, cautioned fearfully against what her senses told her. Stubbornness, however, still held onto the frayed ends of her self-awareness. She pulled off the coarse hood that had blinded her, turned herself around on a hip and looked about defiantly, squinting, blinking, in the dim light.

The small cell was undistinguished, but different than the others, and very empty. On the wall opposite the only door, she saw a small cleanser toilet with a water dispenser hanging beside it. To her right, the wall was blank vertical steel with a high, tiny air vent that blew cold; to the left was more steel, interrupted by a short, narrow sleeping slab. Lighting was minimal by human standards, guaranteed to be darkly depressing and yet far too light for privacy.

The floor was steel as well, sharply hard and chilling against her buttocks. It seemed to shimmer under her, as if it were rumbling too low to hear She felt it in her bones though, and it felt alive, hungry.

Shakily, she pulled herself up to her feet— _What!_ —and panicked at the heavy slick slither of cloth that hung from her shoulders, the cold, clinging fabric enfolding her body, laying heavy on her aching bones, another layer of imprisonment.

She nearly dropped the hood. They had put a nasty and clammy poncho on her! _Well,_ she conceded, as she worked at settling her nerves, _this is better than being completely naked._

Her right knee was tender. She limped over to the water dispenser and dampened the hood. After holding it against her kneecap a while, she wrung it out and wet it again, this time wiping behind her left ear, then down the back of her neck. When her skin tingled and felt raw, she realized that she had done so too many times already. She closed her eyes. Time was a tricky thing in a place like this, lasting too long, slipping away too quickly. Well. Enough of that. She pulled back her hands and looked at the grimy fabric she held, a pouch, black like the poncho, but stamped with the Imperial crest on the front. The hood scrunched into a tiny ball in her fist. _That was the last scream they get from me,_ she decided calmly. _I am finished with them, whatever happens next._

She tasted blood in her mouth; she must have bit her tongue recently. It didn't hurt, not like the flat of her cheek. That still stung. She shook out and re-watered the hood. Rubbing it more gently over her face, she wiped away the grime of harsh hands-on interrogations, the gritty scrapes from lying against concrete, the acid sting of chemicals in the sanitary hose with which she’d tried to keep clean and never could. The Empire hadn't offered clean water.

Wringing the rag and seeing no color drain away in the catch, she sighed softly for small blessings. Leaning forward to let the poncho drape loose and away from her body, she ran the wet cloth over other aches that her ordeal had left behind, gingerly touching bruises and still-tender skin. At last, she straightened, folded the hood without looking at it again, and tossed it aside, onto the sleeping slab.

The poncho slipped as she did so. She grabbed at it, but the pressed weave slid through her fingers and when finally caught, tore at its single seam. Ripped at the top now, there was no way to adjust it properly. More a tabard than anything else; its two side ties were minimal, never meant to provide privacy. She would have to hold ihe top closed to keep it from gaping.

Which was difficult to do with the sudden surge of gravity that rolled through the steel floor.

"What now?' she asked aloud, hearing a dry and cracked voice. She stepped back, forward, staying upright only because for over half a year she had been on one after another small, rugged starship, looking for her brother.

The sensation of movement faded with the familiar slide into hyperspace; the floor’s liveliness settled back into its subsonic grumble. Her new cell was on a ship! Giddy hysteria over whether her interrogators had been left behind on Chandrila clashed with bitter anxiety over what new prison would claim her next. There was nothing she could do to settle either question, of course. Nothing, but what she had struggled with hour after day after week.

Taking care of myself.

Her nerves settled down somewhat. Looking back at the dispenser, she decided to risk the possibility that the cell drew on the same recycled ship water that the crew drank and sipped from her cupped hands. The taste of it was wonderful, whatever it might contain. After drinking her fill, she returned to the sleep bench, pulled the bottom of the poncho under her and sat on the chilly slab of metal. Finding the damp hood, she tucked it under her breasts, cool against red and rough skin. Then she leaned back against the metal wall and closed her eyes,

Counselor Ceeli Montesi, senior aide to Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila, let herself drift into sleep. It was the first time in a month that she'd had quiet and privacy.

*****

Mon Mothma wasn’t one for praying—who among her home planet’s pantheon would understand the sort of harvest she cultivated these days? But, as she leaned over the rail into the main bay of the _Alderaan_ and saw the two ships that would carry her raiders to their command ship, she sent up a prayer to any galactic gods that might be listening to grant success for this raid. She knew that the first active rebel mission attempted after Hoth had to go off smoothly, if for no other reason than that the Alliance propaganda machine demanded some kind of victory. Her escape from Coruscant had faded in the voracious public mind, or, if remembered, was negated by the Emperor's salacious—and false—holo of her being beaten and raped.

 _Why is that holovid given so much credence?_ She turned away the unanswerable question. There were people enough among the Alliance who hadn’t resisted the temptation to speculate, people who should know better.

 _The Emperor did a good job with his lie,_ she mused. First he ordered Madine to assassinate her, then, he released the vid and slandered both of them to the public eye of the Galaxy. _Palpatine just didn’t expect me to survive—and that I owe to Crix. If we compared what each of us has had to deal with since then, I wonder what he’d have to tell me?_

Actually some of it she knew. She’d read the reports that Issahm filed on Madine’s interrogation. It was clear—at least to her—that Madine was furious at being in this situation, at being slandered as a brutal sadist, no matter that he hadn’t actually killed the Alliance Commander.

And she knew that he would do whatever necessary to clear his name of that shadow before he died.

Mothma laughed to herself. On the other hand, that Crix Madine was a traitor to the Imperial system he’d supported for so long was something he could cheerfully live with.

She had been amused, as well, to learn that the Emperor had issued special orders: if Major Crix Madine of Corell—or Mon Mothma of Chandrila—were captured alive, they were to be brought to Palpatine in person. At least, Issahm assured her, neither of them had to worry about summary execution by the Empire.

Had he told Madine? Mothma doubted it. The Alderaani hadn’t liked Madine from the outset.

But would Madine support her Alliance beyond his loyalty to her, and the redemption of his name? Mothma needed Madine’s skills and fierce honor for her cause, and she needed the respect of her people for the man. She believed in him; would the others, and when?

Karaki, the Zabrak lieutenant who was currently assigned as her bodyguard and schedule coordinator, gossiped about Madine with others. Their voices died when they saw her, but Mothma overheard enough to know that the major was slow to fit in. The Mon Calamari welcomed him most easily, maybe because they’d joined recently and didn’t have raw memories of the Empire’s actions on Hoth. <

She often wondered if it might help if she talked about her history with Crix; just let it trickle through the Alliance. But, really, it was none of their business. Imagine what Ceeli Montesi would said if she gossiped about her personal life!

But that was old news as well. Mothma leaned harder against the rail, her hands wrapped tightly around the worn steel. Her friends and staff on Chandrila were lost. She didn’t want to think about what had happened to them.

What was the Alderaani phrase that Bail had taught Leia? No time for yesterday’s losses. Mothma had always thought that a bit cold. Useful, though. Certainly, the Commander of the Alliance always had too many times to put aside yesterday’s losses.

The railing creaked. She stepped back quickly, remembering the last report from maintenance. Laughter and banter drifted up to the walkway; not at her, but the kind that came when action was in the offing. Mothma let her attention be captured by the excitement below. How much better listening to such sounds than facing the pressures that awaited her just minutes away back in her office.

One officer, a Calamari, looked up, noticed her presence and rapped his long fingers against the shoulder of the blond human beside him. Crix Madine followed his companion’s gaze and smiled; he nodded his head respectfully, but didn't move. She hadn't expected him to.

Mothma heard the sound of creaking leather coming up close behind her and knew Lieutenant Karaki was back, mostly likely impatient for her to return to work so it could go about its duties. _This one goes as soon as I find another person to do its work, she promised herself. It wants to fight. Being assigned to me is wrong for it—and me._

Mothma acknowledged her aide, but said nothing.

Down below, she saw Amman heading toward one of the ships, a gawky tech in tow. With a ‘droid on his heels, the boy bounced with excitement, and with just the slightest hitch of fear in his walk. From the severe set of the soldier’s shoulders, Amman just tolerated him.

Then Amman threw his head back with a laugh and the captain seemed human again. Mothma hoped he was as honest as he appeared.

A few steps away from Mothma were the stairs to the bay floor. With sudden determination—some personal rebelliousness—she quickly descended, startling the troopers below even more than the horned Zabrak above.

Without hesitation, Mothma walked over to Quinx and Madine; both stiffened to attention. "Good luck, Major Quinx," she said simply. "Please pass that along to everyone."

When the Calamari didn't reply, Madine spoke up. "We'll do it, Commander," he said with crisp assurance. "We've even got the ships ready to move all the prisoners to safe havens."

"You plan for everything, Major,” she said. Quinx had colored—with relief? Out of awkwardness? She usually could read Calamari emotional patterns, but—no matter. All three of them knew this was Madine’s operation. "Then I look forward to seeing you,” Mothma’s smile included both officers of rank, “and all your troops back here safely."

Madine and Quinx inclined their heads respectfully. She turned away to give them the chance to finish their discussion.

Across the bay, Mothma’s gaze met Amman’s. She continued on her way, but on the edge of her sight, saw him glance at the unknowing Madine. Then Amman, like her, kept to his business and turned back to loading gear.

No one else she passed gave more than a respectful, even wary, nod. They were busy; she was out of place here.

No, her presence hadn't been necessary for anyone but herself, but Mothma knew she had to come down. Madine was only here because he had saved her life. She didn’t want to consider how she’d feel if he died at Amman’s hands.

 _Ah, I have to stop thinking like that,_ Mothma scolded herself as she climbed the stairs back to where her aide waited. How could she let herself care too much about any one person anymore? Alderaan was gone. Everyone on Chandrila as well, even Ceeli who’d worked beside her for decades.

_Well._

Mothma laughed to hear herself sounding like Montesi. Well indeed. She had known too many of those lost on Hoth for too long. If her throat caught each time, she’d have no breath left.

_And this ship's a snake pit of building ambition because the rest of us left are all crammed in together. Make this work, Crix. Give us a victory, please. And come back alive._

Back on the upper passageway, Mon Mothma nodded at her aide and walked with him to the inner corridor entry. She didn't look back then, either.

**On the I.S.S TARPON**

Ceeli found fitful sleep while sitting in the hard angle between wall and slab, her feet not quite reaching the floor, her balance uneasy. Chasing mindless refreshment, she kept her eyes closed, but found none. With a sigh, she lay down on the hard bench, knowing it would be too short, too narrow. Barely able to keep the poncho between cold steel and her hips, beneath or behind her, Ceeli drifted into the patterns that had kept her mind focused since the day that the momentum of her life had been shattered.

She went over what had happened, deconstructed why it had happened and how it would determine what might happen next. She was a plotter, a planner, a designer of what she and hers wished to be. She had been so before she had been taken; had remained so no matter the long days they taken her again and again; and she would be so now, today, even after a month so painfully past.

Ceeli breathed in sharply, bit down on her doubts.

_Surely it was no more than a month._

 

 _She readjusted her carry-all as she stepped through the Customs exit arch. She traveled so lightly these days that she barely noticed the official inquiries; she simply answered all the usual questions_ —No, not on business, sir, just looking up my brother— _and found her way to the spaceport doors as casually as the most hardened space rat. The image amused Ceeli; when had she ever worn denim trews?_

Maybe I should get a long vest with too many pockets. Which could actually be handy, _she had to admit_ —Ah.

_Her smile faded. On the edge of her vision, a familiar figure stepped out of the Gateway shadows and beckoned._

_He was a few pounds stouter. The thought was irrelevant and unavoidable. And his ever-present smile was missing. That was curious. No matter, his unexpected appearance spoke of a problem. Without breaking her pace, and even after twenty years of living wary of curious behavior, Ceeli walked over._

_"Dhon?"_

_She had loved him; they’d parted, but with affection and concern for each other. When he took her by the elbow, she leaned easily into the grip._

_"Come this way, now, Ceeli, it’s not safe," he said in an undertone, turning them both towards a side entry and its empty waiting area._

_Ceeli knew that Dohn Caardert was no fool. Too brightly trusting, yes, but he could read a stormy sky. Suddenly the arches of the Chandrilan spaceport no longer seemed as welcoming as they had for all the years she'd come here. Montesi followed, her senses alert with worry._

_He stood back at the doorway until it slid shut on their impromptu privacy. “I’ve ordered a personal car but it’s not here yet. It’ll call.”_

_Ceeli turned to face him, trying to read more than just the concern in his furrowed brow. He’d let his hair go years ago, dismissing fashion, keeping that white fringe tidy, but keeping it nevertheless. His face seemed all the more open for his pale and bare head. Ceeli shook her thoughts off the tempting, comfortable side-track. "What's going on?' she asked, wishing that the windows that ringed the room weren’t so wide and tall._

_"They arrested everyone in your office," he said. "Do you know why?"_

_Montesi froze. How many times had she and Mothma anticipated the inevitability of exposure by the Empire?_

_They know about the rebellion, _she thought._ They’ll have taken Mothma— _her heart wavered; she refused its hesitation_ —and now they’re searching for proof of Alliance activity among her staff. _

_"I don't know," she said, her voice calm, cool. “When?”_

_Dohn looked away, knowing better than to ask the obvious; they had discovered long ago that each measured the future by irreconcilable rules. "I'm going to get arrested for this, aren't I?" he worried. He met her gaze for a breath—she said nothing—then his expression softened as he let his eyes trace the warp of her braid. "But I couldn't let them just pick you up, Ceeli." He made a teasing pass at smoothing a wayward hair that they both knew didn’t exist, a helpless gesture from lost times still held dear. "Just not possible, CC."_

_After the divorce, they'd gone their own ways, staying friends even after his re-marriage. His new wife took to Ceeli well enough. His three boys looked at her fondly when she chanced to visit._

_"You probably should have," she said, trying to modulate her exasperation. "If the Empire is hunting me—when did they come for my staff, Dhon?"_

_“When do you think?” He returned the impatience. “The same day that Mon Mothma's coffin arrived back from Coruscant. Oh. Ceeli? You didn’t know?”_

_He read her quickly enough. She would not believe—not after Alderaan—that anything could break her control again. But Dohn saw past her most studied expressions and so she never knew if she gasped, or staggered, or just stared into that black hole of loss yet one more time._

_Had she and Mothma actually played out what each would do if ever the other… of course they had… but for some reason Ceeli couldn’t recall the procedure._

_“When?” She managed to say, pushing herself away from his consoling embrace. “When did she—”_

_“You haven’t seen—”_

_“Seen what? I’ve been—” Ceeli took a breath “— looking for Tavel, and in places people don’t watch the news. Don’t say it, Dohn. If he was taken, I’d know. Ah. That sounded odd, didn’t it—” she was rambling; she never rambled “—me not catching the news—not that the ship I came in on had energy to do more than limp into system the last week—”_

_"Ceeli?" he interrupted, “did you know she had a lover?_

_She knew her eyes widened. Mothma with a lover? What is he talking about?_

_Dohn took her astonishment for assent and nodded back. “The Emperor himself made the announcement on Holonews, saying he wanted the truth out about the lover, about—“ he hesitated, “about her suicide, Ceeli.”_

_"Suicide!" She stepped back and stared at the sympathy with which the man watched her. He still assumed that she and Mothma— irrelevant, that was irrelevant. And no suicide could happen either. Nothing, no one—there was no man in Mothma's life that would make her commit suicide._

_Read_ that _in my face, Dohn._

_More quietly, she demanded, "Who reported that bit of nonsense?"_

_"They put out a holo that shows it," he defended himself. Dohn pulled a small disk from the inner pocket of his formal suit and put it in her hand. "It's...Ceeli, I wouldn’t believe what’s on it, not in my wildest—but it comes straight from Coruscant."_

 

*****

 _In the back corner of the room, where Dohn insisted she sit down and from where he could spot the coming car while easily shading her from casual view, Ceeli watched the holo to the end: A brutal beating, then Mothma staggering to her feet, injecting herself with a poison—_ and how would she have gotten that — _Mothma collapsing, dying._

_"Crix Madine,” she said to the wall as the device shut down. “I know him. He was a friend of hers."_

_"Really?" Dohn scoffed. "They say he was an Imperial officer. Brutal bastard. Now everyone has seen what he did.” The plantings he stood beside rustled as he turned toward her. “I’m sorry, Ceeli"_

_“Yes.”_

_But I don’t—can't—believe it,_ she thought, staring at the now empty-device. _Won’t believe it. Ceeli wrapped her fist around the thin round disk edge._

_She stood, rested a hand on her husband’s sleeve. Meeting his gaze, she held it with no posturing, no games now. "She's dead, Dhon, isn't she?"_

_He hesitated, glanced back at the windows, then leaned closer to her and shrugged. "State sent down an advisory. You know how they hate to admit to bad news.”_

_They stood face to face, the same height; Ceeli could see a struggle within Dohn, his need for certainty, the doubt she injected into his thoughts even as she struggled to accept his news. They never would have lasted, even if she hadn’t run away to play conspirator whenever Mothma called up a game._

_He told her, told himself, “Her coffin landed and the Empire confiscated it. I don't know what they're doing, Ceeli. They arrested her family. And they've cracked down on everything going out of here.” Now he sighed, leaned back ever so slightly. “What are you going to do?"_

_Ceeli shook her head. She tried to think, but what she'd just seen and heard kept intruding. "I don't know," she said at last. She arched an eyebrow at Dohn, waiting for his snort of disbelief at such an admission, at what had usually been a gambit between them._

_“You have to leave Chandrila,” he said instead, warning, “They’ll catch you here, Ceeli.”_

_"They know I'm back,“ she snapped, then added more gently. “My luggage, Dohn, my identification. They have to know."_

_Unexpectedly he kissed her cheek. "I'll keep you safe, CC." His wrist communicator flashed, saving both of them from the gulf between their realities. “Ah, the car’s here.”_

_As were stormtroopers, slipping off a passage barge. Ceeli and Dohn walked out of the waiting room onto a loading plaza and the embrace of Imperial authority. The car’s room arched open; an officer stepped out. Montesi recognized him as a top man with Chandrilan Imperial headquarters. She knew the name, Ferlins._

_"Ceeli Montesi,” the Captain smirked. “You are under arrest for being a traitor to the Empire. You will come with us."_

_She felt a sudden urge to do something incredibly stupid, like try to run—and die—but the life-long habit of acting rationally didn’t fail her now. Instead, she left her emotions in the waiting room. Dead, she couldn't help the Rebellion. Alive—well, alive, she might be able to escape._

_"Captain Ferlins,” Ceeli corrected the man politely. “I am not a traitor."_

_His lips thinned. "The Senator was one, you are one, and so is everyone involved with you."_

_She saw people stopping, gawking behind the white plasticine rows, whispering but saying nothing aloud. Out from the intimidating barrier, three armored troopers stepped between Ceeli and Dohn; one pulled her arms forward and snapped mag-cuffs shut around her wrists where they automatically tightened. Her bones ached with her first reflexive movement._

_Behind her, she heard her ex-husband’s horrified and desperate exclamation. “Ceeli, I—“_

_“Thank you, Citizen Caardert,” Ferlins declared magnanimously over Ceeli’s shoulder, “for your help in holding this rebel for us. You may be on your way. This shall not be forgotten.”_

_“Go away, Dhon,” Ceeli said flatly, not looking back. She knew he hadn’t turned her in, but right now she didn’t need his interference or help. He couldn’t help her now—he never could._

 

She dearly hoped Dhon was safe. He was a good man, if naïve—and had given her something safe to think about instead of that travesty of a holo that Ferlins played—how many? Too damn many times—during his unimaginative interrogation of her. Involuntarily, Ceeli twitched, then clenched her hands. Her ragged nails cut into her palms. She slowly spread her fingers out again, controlling her anger as well.

Ferlins might threaten Dohn, or be carelessly reassuring, promising reward. Well, the dear fool would remember things she had done and said to him, or not. There was nothing worry could do to redress his fate.

But that damned holo— Ceeli again reran the nightmare drama in her mind, embracing the discipline of cold analysis for which she had been well known to parse the vivid details all too well.

Her dispassion made clear what her heart had known was wrong. She frowned, not in disgust but in astonishment. Now she saw that Mothma was too small, Madine too large, the actions too exaggerated and—suicide? Ceeli laughed dryly. Mon Mothma of Chandrila committing suicide over some man?

And no, not that man either. Mothma wouldn’t even admit to Ceeli that he meant more to her than just a friend.

Nothing felt real in any of it. Which was why she couldn’t accept the vid, however many times it was played, again and again, and how many times she went over and over—Enough. Everything was wrong about the holo, no excuses. Knowing that even without thinking had given her the strength to resist Ferlins and all his games.

 _And bruises for my disbelief,_ she thought, feeling an ache on her right side at the mere idea of turning around where she lay. Had she told them anything that could hurt the Alliance? No.

_But—Mothma is dead. That I can believe._

Still wishing she were asleep, Ceeli stretched out her arms and felt the hood slide from under her breast to lie chill and damp against her ribs. She had lost weight; there was nothing full about her now and the cell felt colder in her bones.

A thump and rattle then. Ceeli opened her eyes. Over her toes, she saw a meal pack in the slot just past the corner beyond her feet. She sat up, carefully flexing her legs, but still she stumbled over to the wall.

The poncho slipped again as she reached into the recess for the meal-pack. Montesi cursed; the words echoed, startling her. She hobbled back to her seat and tore open the pack, forcing herself to eat slowly. It tasted good, far better than it should. After a careful examination of the pack for crumbs, she pitched the empty wrapper into the corner, and sat back licking her fingers.  
_Last meal for the damned._ She was on a ship; she knew where ships with prisoners went.

The poncho would not stay up. However she sat, when she dropped an arm, most of a shoulder remained uncovered. It made a useless rag, too, as she tried to wipe her damp hands. Irritated, she made a face. She knew she was lucky to have even this wretched garment, but she had to improve it.

Her gaze went to the hood. Maybe there was something she could do with—she snatched it up, eyeing it with distain. The idea was just something to do, but—Ceeli looked about herself, a plan sneaking up on her irritation. But choosing busywork was a damn sight better than just waiting as a victim for the Empire to drain and then discard.

 

*****

“Are we ready?" Madine heard Quinx ask no one in particular as he watched the countdown. They both knew the teams were more than prepared; the plan was as flawless as it could be, and the pilots were absolutely panting to go.

As if in response, the Alliance ship dropped out of hyperspace with a jolt.

Ship's sensors sighted the three Imperial vessels.

"Just as I thought," Madine murmured. "Two guard ships, one old-style prison ship. There should be about 20 TIEs per guard ship."

"Launch ships,” Quinx commanded quietly. “Launch disrupters."

Minutes later, the Mon Calamari captain announced, "They've landed." Alahim waggled a whisker at Madine, "exactly where you planned. Disrupting power on the prison ship now."

"Right guard has noticed something," his human lieutenant reported. "Probably our fighters."

Silently, they watched as TIES poured out of the guard ships only to be met by Alliance X wings that attacked with alacrity and enthusiasm.

Readouts reported that the power on the prison ship had shut down leaving it a cold hulk.

"Let's get ready," Madine ordered Quinx. "Captain, we’re—"

"Good luck, Major," Alahim said without turning away from his screen. "You had better hurry, too, before they run out of air."

 

**On the R.S.S ALDERAAN**

Issahm’s symbol for entry came up on the office console, startling Mon Mothma.

_Has something gone wrong already?_

With a flick of her fingers she signaled ALLOW and he entered, his uniform tidy but still a bad fit; Less militant than Madine stood in his. She couldn’t say why. Her thoughts skirted a number of reasons while she waited for the man to settle in the chair opposite her.

_Well, most likely, Quartermasters can’t keep up with the variations of Alliance body wear it hands out. We haven’t had any uniformity since Issahm left that position. It’s a mess. Another mess I have to clean up._

“They’ve attacked,” Issahm said without preamble. “It’s all going smoothly. Admiral Ackbar is pleased.” His gaze tracked all over the small room, noting the steady glow of the wall status read-outs, the veiled star screen, even the small holo of his home planet that Mothma kept lit on a corner ledge, always to remind herself. She read approval in his eyes and, with a last glance at the globe, a small waver of retreat. “Did you know Major Quinx is his nephew… or whatever is the closest equivalent in their society?” He added, just as suddenly, “It was his defection that made Ackbar finally come over.”

“I didn’t know that about Quinx,” Mothma replied, interlacing her fingers. The general would come to his point in due time. “I’m glad he’s with us.”

“Had I known the family connections,” Issahm looked away from the ghost of Alderaan, looked at Mothma’s desktop, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not sure I would have approved the raid. Such regard _is_ important to the Calamari, after all.”

 _And to the Alderaani._ At that moment Mothma realized her underlying problem with the man: Risk was no longer tolerable to Issahm. He had become protective to the point of stasis in all he had done after Alderaan died. His initiative, normally almost non-existent, had blown away with the loss of his world.

 _He’s not going to be able to beat the Empire,_ Mothma realized with a chill. _I need someone I can count on in that position. And because he knows too much—I have to find him something else to do._

“Do you have any information on the prisoners?” she asked aloud. “You said there were some Alderaani on the flight.”

“No, not yet.” Issahm seemed caught between enthusiasm and sorrow. “Quinx is still getting the data from their banks. But, it’s all proceeding to plan.” He sharpened, distracted by what he had just admitted and on guard. “According to what’s been sent back.”

According to Crix’s plan, Mothma amended silently, careful to focus on the Alderaani and not her assessment as she stated, “Then you should know soon.”

After just the slightest pause, Issahm accepted the dismissal. “Yes, Commander, I should.” He nodded. He stood. At the door, as it slid open, he added, “I’ll keep you informed,” Then he was gone.

Sitting back in her chair, Mothma wondered Issahm’s reason for coming. Was he lonely? That she didn’t need. Was it just more of the man’s fussy worry? Not for the first time, she missed the caustic humor, and insight, of Ceeli Montesi’s post-meeting reports.

_Well. We need more ships to spread us out, no argument there. Maybe Crix should take the three ships and not let them go per his plan._

Mothma shook her head. Too late for that. This was only the first of many raids.

___(I should hope!)_ _ _

There would be other ships.

*****

**On the I.S.S TARPON**

_No, not a victim any longer,_ she thought as, with more of her endless time, she carefully knotted the long pieces into a short rope. _And no more reviews of the past._ She was finished with analysis, her conclusions drawn and accepted. Ferlins had not disabled her ability to think and he would not determine how she faced what came next.

 _I am from Alderaan, I was a Senator’s aide, and I will face them looking like one._ The affirmation, the vehement assertion, helped her feel stronger, made the knots tighter.

She came to her feet. If she rubbed the ragged rope on the steel wall and moved quickly, looked fast, she could catch a hint of a reflection. Montesi surveyed her tabard carefully in her metal mirror, not that there was anything worth seeing. With a snort, she pulled off the poncho and stood naked in the cell. Studying the sorry garment, she found the sturdiest portion of the torn neckline and, using her teeth and nails, managed to make a small slit in both sides, Next, she took up a long piece of the hood that she had repurposed and, holding her breath against luck, threaded it through the holes, slipped the poncho back over her head.

The remnant held. Ceeli pulled the torn pieces of neckline together and knotted the scrap into a defiant bow. She straightened, tall, defiant.

The poncho now fell the way it should, felt the way she had hoped. However uncomfortably flimsy, it conformed to her figure.

Picking up the long knotted rope, she wrapped it about herself, carefully folding the poncho to fit her torso for maximum protection. The cord went around twice and left enough to tie in the front—but she should not think about the weight she had lost. The poncho hugged her shape and she felt immeasurably better. The vague reflection on the wall was no longer a pale streak, She was covered from collarbone to thigh. For as long as the bow at the neck held, she didn’t have to fear sudden full exposure.

In the end, given a rag to finalize her humiliation, she had turned it into a veil.

_Small victories._

Ceeli raised her chin, and felt the ends of her hair brush her nape. Another memory shuddered through her and would not be pushed aside.

She had expected death, but the sleek Imperial blade went through her long braid of hair instead. Losing her proud dusky gold crown had been more of a shock than the order to strip and the shove into a cage with only a loosely woven blanket to sleep under or to use as a cover from the omnipresent cameras.

Well, the hair was gone. She came to cherish that blanket, counting its strips, memorizing the rough feel and smell, all the while trying not to let her desperation show. She could hold it and know that it existed, was part of a reality that Ferlins and his men had tried to convince her didn’t exist any longer. <

Perhaps, if she had not had that blanket, her blanket, she might have fallen into their false world, into the shadows of no-sense, as they had with the holo.

 _He wasn’t very good,_ Ceeli realized suddenly. _If Ferlins had been, I wouldn’t be here._

For a moment, her bruises ached a little less.

She put her hands up and defiantly ran her fingers through the cruelly cropped hair. Mothma preferred short hair, something Ceeli did not understand. She didn’t like it, either.

But it would keep growing. It always did.

She crossed the room (ah, the poncho continued to fall true) and took another drink, then returned to her shelf.

Time was hers; and a scrap more of dignity than when she awoke last time.

*****

Madine looked over his special-operations teams. The majority of them were non-human. Interesting that—and the major difference from the last ones he’d led. Then he reconsidered. Not so different after all: everyone of them waited enthusiastically for his orders. Madine grinned. He picked up his air mask and gestured sharply at the corvette in the ship’s bay. "Let's go get what’s ours."

They landed in the wide-open docking bay minutes later. The Imperials still hadn't reestablished power and scans showed no nearby life-signs. In seconds ‘droids inserted Alliance command codes and the ship came back to life. A Calimari crackle from the mike announced, "Complete."

In that one word, Madine knew that Alahim had control of all internal systems. The Imperial officers on the bridge were probably going wild right about now.

"Clear away," the captain continued.

And that meant the X-wings had done in the TIEs. Their escorts gone, the guard ships were under direct attack.

 _If there are prisoners on them..._ Madine scowled at the traitorous cynicism. _No, we— dammit, the Empire—doesn't do that._

Madine hid his grimace at the verbal slip. He had to start using terms that spoke of loyalty to the Alliance. This wasn’t just an exercise in taking something away from the Empire; that sounded all too much like the Emperor’s claims of Alliance piracy. This was a rescue mission, a coming for what was ours, for what the enemy had taken from them.

Lecture over, he saw that air pressure was good. It was time to start stage two. Madine waved his hands.

The teams switched on wrist panels tuned into the sensors on the prison ship. Checking for location IDs of Imperial forces, the rebels began to move carefully through the ship, section to section. Not that this type of ship flew with an overstock of guards, Madine knew. The cells here were sealed, not to be opened until touchdown on Kessel.

Shouldn't take long to clear the ship of the enemy at all.

*****

Ceeli felt a jolt shimmer through her sleeping ledge. Then the lights went out.

She heard a panicked gasp, not a scream, but close enough. She lay still and caught her breath, swearing at the damned memories that expected her to collapse in fear.

 _What’s happened?_ A rational question was good; maybe with a bit of cockiness as well. _Maybe the Empire doesn’t bother to provide ship upkeep to prisoner scows?_

CHUNK. The walls shuddered as if the braces that held them tight around Ceeli were hit by something heavy, something that landed on walls beyond hers with a metallic thud.

Montesi raised her head sharply. That was not a random sound. In fact, there were no more random sounds, the kind a person never heard until they fell silent. Ceeli put her hand in the air and felt nothing from the vent. No air moving.

_I’m going to suffocate?_

A dim conclusion, but actually more welcome. Her fate wouldn’t be a long, inexorable march to more interrogations and death. This could be faster, Ceeli felt a bit upbeat at the thought. _This could be pirates, a space collision—anything._

 _And if so…_ Montesi sat up. She rolled her stiff shoulders and spread her fingers wide; then she smoothed the poncho over her lap, laid one hand on top the other and watched the door. She was not so dirty as before, not so naked. Her nerves were a bit shaky, but her mind was alert. Whatever happened next, she would face it with wit and dignity until someone ended her need to face anything at all.

 _So be it._ She was tired of waiting on others to turn the wheel.

*****

With the second team reporting the bridge secured, Madine relaxed, taking an easy breath, then another. The plan was moving along well.  
He walked over to the nearest data wall and eyed the computer tech who'd come across with Quinx on the other ship. Painfully young he was to be managing computer work that was now their do-or-die focus. Still, the boy and his R2 unit muttered back and forth easily as the 'droid plugged in and swiveled; With a flicker, the lights glowed brighter.

“Report,” Madine said into the chatter.

"Sir! C2 says nothing has been—" the tech looked up then and clearly saw someone unexpected. He leaned back stiffly and started stuttering. “They didn't—don’t—know what happened—it's just as if…" His adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His wide eyes seemed unable to focus on any one piece of his officer’s armor. "Noth—nothing was released, sir."

"Very good, —?" Waiting for a name, Madine returned the examination.

At last the boy found his voice again."Nethercutt, sir," he chirped.

"Good." Madine smiled; at least he hoped he did, although Nethercutt’s own expression didn’t seem to support that intention. "Make sure you're ready for anything when I order it. Major Quinx?

Quinx trotted over with awkward alacrity, a trio of masked troopers behind him. "Time, Madine?"

"Yes, let's get the prisoners released and up here. Get the wounded, too, and load them on the med-ship," Madine ordered. He thumbed his communicator. "Captain Grandia, are there any empty cells down there?"

"Yes, sir," a human's voice came out of the comlink. "Two of them."

Madine signed off without comment, his mind running on six or seven different scenarios. "I’m going down to the prison level, Quinx. Remember—

"I'll handle up here, sir," Quinx replied with a decisive nod. "Watch out for any strays. Take these men with you."

That was a good idea. "I will,” Madine nodded, his gaze scanning the troopers. “Now, Nether…” He turned to the tech, whose wide eyes banished any memory of who he was. “Whatever your name is. Make sure those prison doors can be opened when I order it.”

Turning away, he thumbed the comlink, “Teams, start bringing the prisoners down to the detention block when I call, including the officers.”

He passed Nethercutt as he left. The boy was bent over the astro-droid with its connection whirling wildly.

 

Madine tracked cautiously through the halls of the ship, armed and alert for a fight but relaxed by the sheer familiarity of where he was. He'd walked on ships like this enough times before, loading prisoners after battles, watching them taken away to… somewhere. Now he was breaking them out.

He could hear the troopers behind him but didn’t look back. Quinx had brought them; they had to be reliable. Madine hoped that someday he could train his own teams; until then, he’d just have to count on what passed for Special Ops in the Alliance.

 _My past is going to catch up with me some day,_ came a stray thought as he entered the prison block.

The lead officer turned on him, weapon held ready.

“Madine,” he identified himself, lowering his blaster pistol. “How is it, Grandia?”

“Sir!” the man relaxed, stepped back beside the bay control podium, and reported, "We've filled the two cells, but we've got enough Imps to fill a few more—if we can get the doors open, and get the prisoners out.”

The team had Stormtroopers lined up along the cell passage at the far end of the hall, all of them helmet-less and looking less impressive than normal. _Looking like any of the human races except… what? No initiative? Well-trained to never make a decision, just to follow orders?_ Madine thought of the rebel— _Alliance_ —troops he had come to know. There he found initiative—and independence. Sometimes too much for his tastes. He squinted, but the captured troops still looked a bit…dull. Hmf. He was the one who had to adapt, that was all, and apparently some of that change was happening without conscious realization..

Whatever their opinions on the Imperial forces, the Alliance troopers were taking no chances; the guards didn’t take their eyes off their unarmed counterparts.

“Get the prisoners from Chandrila out of the way, Captain,” Madine advised, “and we can fill their cells with your prisoners." He keyed on his comlink as Grandia walked down the corridor towards the Alliance troops. "Nethercutt, what's going on? I want you to open cells —"

"Opening them now, sir," came a confident reply.  
Every door along the hallway opened.

Imperial prisoners, officers, pilots and Stormtroopers boiled out of their cells, overwhelming the nearest Alliance troops, grabbing Alliance weapons. In seconds, the passage way burst bright and loud with blaster fire, curses and screams of pain.

His back flat against the corridor wall, Madine heard Grandia’s curse, saw him raise his weapon amid cross-fire too wild to allow following the man. Officers and troopers on either side fired stun bolts into the crowd, but heat and ricocheting energy sent all of them ducking and weaving.

"Quinx, send us help!" Madine roared into his comlink, his heavy blaster hot and recharging in his other hand. "Nethercutt, SHUT THE DOORS!"

The reply was lost in the sound of laser bolts and the cries of wounded or dying soldiers.

“NETHERCUTT!”

*****

Ceeli heard thumps and felt the air moving again. The lights flickered on. She laid her hand on the wall behind her and knew that the engines weren’t powering them through space. The ship had stopped.

She pushed herself up off the seat to face the door, staggering a moment. When her right leg felt secure again, Montesi started stretching, determined not to be stiff or distracted, whatever was happening. She wasn’t sure that she approved of the rising hope she felt. _That makes no sense,_ she scolded her heart but there it was. She alone would pay for such sentimentality. Meanwhile, she kept her attention kept full on that door,

Then, without further warning, the wall slid open on loud chaos in the corridor, on the laser bolts flashing by. Instinctively, Ceeli stumbled back from the fighting, flinching at the screams she heard. Still she watched, her heart pounding. At the doorway, right in front of her, two soldiers grappled, an Imperial Stormtrooper, all white and black, but without his helmet, and another man, in blast gear but unrecognizable. Filling the entry, they struggled and grabbed over a military-grade blaster until, with explosive abruptness, the trooper fell into the cell, carrying the other man with him down the stairs.  
Ceeli scrambled away from the tangled bodies in a room suddenly too small. The wall beside the entry stairs would safe, out of the way of stray fire from the hall and sheltered from the outside sound and fury. Inside the cell was riotous enough with large, armored men fighting an arm’s reach away.

Now the stormtrooper had the other man pinned down and was yanking on the blaster, trying to gain control of the weapon.

For a moment, a heartbeat, Ceeli heard someone screaming into Ferlins’ voice— _This play-acting won’t work! This isn’t real! How stupid do you think I—_

Close fighting flared in the doorway; heat flooded the stairs. _Dammit, this is not an illusion!_ Ceeli slammed a palm hard against the wall, feeling the indifference of the unyielding steel jar her arm. _No, you will not kill him!_ She yanked her bow loose, out of the tabard holes, as she pushed herself away from wall and at the fighting men. Grabbing the cord’s frayed ends, she threw a loop around the trooper's neck, jerking back hard.

The ragged thin material slipped. An end flew out of her grip.

But this _was_ real and the garrote worked well enough. Startled, the stormtrooper was turning back at the sudden threat when other fighter broke free. Faster than Ceeli could follow, the blaster was in the stranger's hands. Light and sound exploded in the cell. The trooper was blown backwards against the closed door.

Closed? Ceeli registered that incongruity—and the smell of burning flesh, the clatter of plasticine when a body hit the floor—as the power flare faded from her sight.

She stood panting, one hand again on the side wall, the other holding the frail cord. The strange soldier sitting tense on the floor, one leg stretched out wide and under the dead stormtrooper, the other bent at the knee, supporting his arm. She looked at him. He held his weapon held ready and aimed at her.

They both still breathed deeply, a loud sound in the small room now that the door was shut on the noise outside.

 _I know that uniform. Why can’t I…?_ But she couldn't name it amid all the sudden sensual input, all the noise of reality that Ferlins had tried to rip away.

"Who are you?" Montesi asked, unable to let go of the wall lest the scene fall away into fantasy, but proud that her voice was still hers, was steady.

“Michael Grandia, Captain, for the Alliance to Restore the Republic,” he said, his voice shakey. Adrenalin, probably. “Who are you?”

Ceeli stared at the man, at his armor. It must be real, and cobbled together, of that she was sure. Anyone knew that supplies were spare enough—but, was that truth or something Ferlins made up to—Montesi shook her head. If this was a fabrication, it was damn good. She didn’t think that the Imperials had the imagination to put that series chest plate with those greaves.

“Ceeli Montesi,” she breathed, unable to say more about herself. A month of hard habit it was: _Ceeli Montesi, of Alderaan, Diplomatic Staff, degreed in Law and Agriculture—_

 _Stop it woman!_ With a breath, she silenced the mindless recitation, and said instead, “Are you hurt, Captain?”

He laughed. He used the blaster to push the dead stormtrooper off his leg with a grunt. “Don’t think so. He just jumped me.”

She looked at the door. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”

BANG! Both jumped at the outside racket. Then they waited a moment until the silence maintained.

“I have no idea, Mistress,” the captain told her, his use of respect casual, unwitting.

Carefully, he climbed to his feet, steadying himself with care to his own right leg. Adjusting the internal comlink in his helmet, he glanced at the dead man, grimaced at what was left of the face, and said, “This is Grandia. Contact?”

Ceeli stood up straight herself and felt the cell pull away, heard the soldier’s voice at an inexplicable distance. She felt incredibly tired, dizzy. Andrenaline crash, certainly. Draping the frayed cord around her neck, she made her way back to the sleeping ledge to sit out the uncertainty and just watch.

Observation and analysis would steady her. Resting her head against the steel wall, Montesi listened for a tell-tale word from the soldier, but his murmurs were technical, barely audible, leaving her to guess at the necessary logistics, wondering who was leading the raid. She might recognize the name, could anticipate the approach. She knew many of the commanders in the Alliance.

 _Or I did before Hoth. If Hoth happened. Before Mothma. If Mothma—_ Montesi shook off denial and focused on what could help her.

 _Who is in charge right now? The princess is too young, although—_ she gave a mental shrug— _this sort of rescue is certainly is her style._

She coughed. Dry throat. She tried standing again and found that by keeping that one hand on the wall, she could make her way to the water dispenser. Stepping over the dead trooper’s outstretched arm, Montesi felt something shift in her mind, something click into place and run smoothly, quietly. The feeling grew as she caught some water in a scooped palm and took a sip. She was cold, yes, and damned uncomfortable, but she was thinking again. About who she would need to report to, about who she needed to assign as auditor of the quartermaster’s supplies.

Ah, yes, she _was cold._ Looking down over her gaping neckline, Ceeli saw the cord hanging slack. Automatically she re-threaded the eratz garrote, tying it more securely, more properly with the frayed ends laying flat.

She would like to have a few minutes—ten, she wouldn’t need more—with Ferlins’ quartermaster.

The door slid open. Ceeli jumped, her head snapped around, eyes staring.

Grandia swiveled, his blaster held ready.

The man in the doorway held a drawn blaster. He also wore the same uniform as the captain. The two men eyed each other for a fraction of a second, then the other soldier stepped back into the hall, and went away.

Stepping forward, Grandia grunted, “Let me see what’s going on.” He staggered for a second, his wince betraying his surprise, then regained his footing. “I’ll come back for you.” With a quick nod he vanished into the smoky hall.

 _I have been rescued by the Alliance,_ Ceeli told herself. _I have been rescued…by the Alliance._

Relief flooded her. She leaned against the wall again, her hands shaking despite herself. Damn wrecked nerves. Whatever happened now, if the Imperials returned, if the rebels mistrusted her, it made no difference; she would be able to fight back, one way or another.

And, she would— _yes, I will, Captain Ferlins, <> she promised fiercely—prove the truth about her commander. A triumphant urge of completion filled her. _About my_ friend, _Captain Ferlins_ —Mon Mothma._

*****

The corridor was cluttered with bodies. Madine left the messy far end and stalked up to Grandia. “Did you get hurt?”

“No, sir,” the captain gestured to the cell behind him. “Killed the Stormtrooper who jumped me. He’s in there.”

“Good. Help clear the corridor,” Madine ordered. He spotted arriving troopers and kept walking. “Nethercutt!”

The boy was pale, and his eyes wide, as he looked around the battleground.

"Come here." Madine kept his voice cold, harsh, The young man flinched but stepped up. "Look around. This happened because you didn't listen for my orders. You anticipated what I wanted and it wasn’t right!"

Nethercutt went even whiter. Two of the troopers carrying one of the dead Alliance troopers passed by. One, a tall human, shot the boy a reproving look but said nothing.

"Next time, follow my orders precisely," Madine ordered. "Now help them clean up!”

Nethercutt nodded, not even trying to speak. Intently, he trailed after another teammate with arms full of a dead Imperial officer.

__He’d move damned faster,_ Madine thought, _if an Alliance officer could—__

Speaking of orders, Madine looked around. Grandia hadn’t moved. Madine went back. “What’s wrong with you?"

“Ankle, sir. Feels broken or fractured. The boot’s keeping it under control, but ....” Grandia shrugged. “I should—“

"You need some care?"

"I’ll go back with the first set of prisoners, sir. They’re going to the med-ship. I’ll get what I need," Grandia said casually, not Imperial in the least.

_Generous of him to make that decision for his officer. Lucky for the captain he wears blue._

He was apparently good at reading minds, too. Grandia stood straighter. “We do need to get the prisoners out. Sir.”

"Yes, it's time to get moving," Madine agreed, regretting aside his unnecessary—and out-moded—resentment. "Get them away, Captain.” Actually, he had noticed Michael Grandia’s independence the first time they’d met. There was real potential here. Knowing himself too well not to recognize that part of his mind was already processing a staff he had no claim to in this Alliance, he’d kept his approval to himself. Madine did not need Issahm getting any whiff of kingdom-building. He could well imagine the team he’d get assigned so fast…

Fortunately, good men like Grandia kept their eyes open, too.

The captain limped off and Nethercutt reappeared, walking by with his arms full of weapons.

"Put those in the corner, private, then open these doors—one by one," Madine ordered. “Do you need your ‘droid?”

"No, sir," Nethercutt said numbly, his tone fearful. “I can control him from here.”

 _Is this the first battle he's been in?_ Madine wondered. He didn't know the boy was so raw. They needed better training if the Alliance was going to succeed. After this, the Empire would be more ready.

“Then get to work,” he dismissed the tech and turned to face the waiting fresh soldiers “Troop one,” he said as he gave his blaster a quick check then held ready. “I want to make sure that all we pull out are Imperial prisoners. Shoot to kill any Stormtroopers.”

From their expressions, they wouldn’t mind that order at all.

 

***

 

Time returned to passing too slowly.

Ceeli paced the cell as best a person could with a dead stormtrooper sprawled across the floor. Where was Captain Grandia? He said he’d be right back.

Impatience was of no practical use to her, she knew that, but indulging her irritation was far better than allowing any lingering hint of skepticism back into her consciousness.

SNICK! The door opened as all Imperial ship doors seemed to, with an edge to its whoosh of air. Ceeli turned to face yet another blue uniformed man, this one with a blast mask and weapon ready. "Come on. Let’s go!" he demanded, beckoning from atop the stairs, "Out!"

Montesi could hear languages from many worlds just outside the door, as if there were a crowd waiting. She took a cautious step forward, caught a glimpse of a turquoise gown and stopped short, puzzled. That wasn’t an Alliance uniform.

"Come on," the soldier said more gently, as if he had taken a better look at her. "We need the cells for the stormtroopers."

“Have you forgotten there’s already one in here?” she said in surprise, her glance going to the body.

The man suddenly was ready to shoot, his blaster pointed, and Ceeli realized that this wasn’t Grandia.

He relaxed fractionally when he saw the corpse. His masked face turned back to her. “He’s not a problem. Come on.”

Brusquely said, but not unkindly. Ceeli nodded. She walked over, twitching the makeshift gown so it provided fractionally more cover. The soldier moved back into the corridor, allowing her room to step up and out. Not Imperial at all.

A bevy of prisoners clustered in the main bay. While the masked soldier conferred with another Alliance troop, Ceeli saw the turquoise flash again. It hung loose from the shoulders (without a belt, no doubted confiscated) of some Chandrilan woman who must have been a merchant’s wife from the cut of the hem. Annoyed, Ceeli wondered why she had been allowed to keep her gown while she herself was almost naked.

Other beings clung to each other’s company in the corners of the room. Montesi stepped past rubble on the floor to join them. Maybe there would be a spare jacket she could cadge, an under-skirt she might beg use of. The ship actually had been quite full although none of the Chandrilans were from Ceeli’s staff that she could see and no one was as ragged, as vulnerable as herself in lack of dress. The reasons for that nagged as the back of her thoughts. Ceeli shivered. Later; she’d have energy for such when she was off this ship, when she was safe.

She was making her way around a cluster of Alliance troopers, when, without warning, someone grabbed her arm, grabbed it high and pulled her sharply around to face him.

“Ceeli? You’re Ceeli Montesi, aren’t you?” the soldier exclaimed in disbelief.

She froze. No! Don’t! But he didn’t hear her fear’s protest. None of them did, and he just stared. It was all a play-act after all! His fingers had caught the top of the gown. One more movement was going to rip the cloth around the bow. Then I’ll be half naked again— what?

The man’s grip loosened a fraction. “Don’t you know me?” He swept back the blast mask. “I’m Crix Madine.”

Ceeli caught her breath. She was confused, truly frightened. What was he doing here? She wanted to kill him. But she was being rescued. Was he part of the Alliance? How? Didn’t he kill Mothma?

She swallowed, nodded. “I know you.”

“I’m sure you do.” An unexpected smile lit up his face, taking her totally by surprise. “Mothma will be so happy to see you!”

Again the space around Montesi pulled away; her mind spun. Mothma? (Did she say that out loud? She mustn’t! They would hear her voice waver!) But—he said that she would be glad to see… Ceeli concentrated fiercely on standing still, on keeping her voice low, level. “She’s alive,” she said flatly.

And he understood. His free hand touched her elbow lightly, so carefully that she doubted anyone saw. Steadying her, a fleeting sympathetic embrace. “Yes,” he said softly. “She’s alive. Whatever they told you—“ and now his voice sounded as controlled as hers, “—was a lie.”

Of course. She knew it was unreal. Of course.

He studied her for a brief moment more, then shouted over his shoulder. “Grandia!”

Oh, there was the captain!

The stocky officer limped up to them. “Yes, sir?”

"Escort the counselor to the—“ Madine paused. “You've got bruises," he told her, “on your face.”

 _And he doesn't know he's leaving bruises on my arm._ “I fell when they put me in here,” she told him, just as obviously.

"Take the counselor to the med-ship, Captain,” Madine snapped over his shoulder, “and get her some care. She’s your responsibility!"

 _This is almost funny,_ Ceeli thought as she felt the hallway and its people, its noise, slowly become real again. _Mothma is alive and Madine is… what?_ No matter. Clarity would come; she’d be back at her desk again and Mothma would explain. The major released her arm and stepped back.

Ceeli breathed a sigh of belief. The gown hadn’t ripped.

Grandia beckoned. "Come on, Counselor."

She followed him.

  
*****

The prison transport bay was full with rebels hauling in everything they could strip and carry away from the ship—mostly weapons and food from what Ceeli could see. Through all the noisy jostling, a pale stream of civilian prisoners flowed toward one of two landing vessels, pausing only long enough—pausing reluctantly—to offer names to an officer at the ramp.

Montesi almost stepped toward that anxious line. Someone to talk with, to feel normal with again. And yet, to her left in a nearby arc, she saw the other lander with a Calamari at its ramp, an Alliance officer wearing a bright orange medical corps arm badge and med droids loading at his command.

She knew that she needed care; she also wanted, needed, to get back to work. Unsure which direction to go, Ceeli hesitated. Then the Calamari turned, noted the soldier beside her and gestured elegantly at them. Captain Grandia settled Ceeli’s dilemma. He took her wrist firmly and, limping, pulled her toward the second lander.

“Wounded?” the medic said crisply, “Are you in pain?”

“Not badly, doc.”

The captain was lying. Ceeli knew and so did the officer who waved a long hand at the nearest med droid.

“Major Madine wants Counselor Montesi to come with me to the med ship,” Grandia added.

The Calamari’s large eyes blinked slowly, acknowledging the captain’s threat with genial humor. He surveyed Montesi from her bare feet to shorn hair, shrugged. “Get aboard, both of you. M2-9, take these two humans—What?”

Ceeli and Grandia turned to follow the officer’s gaze.

A gawky figure skittered across the crowded platform at them. The young man flinched slightly at the Calamari’s blinking inquiry, but stopped in front of the captain and Ceeli. In his arms, he clutched a grey bundle.

“He—He,” the boy thrust his prize at her. “He—he said to give thi—this to you.”

Ceeli wondered where the boy had come from to be so uncertain and yet part of the rebellion. It occurred to her that she must be feeling better to be curious about the story that spilled behind him. Right now, however, she was more interested in his gift.

“’Him?” rumbled the Calamari. “And you are?’

“Major Madine?” Ceeli murmured, raising a critical eyebrow as an Imperial officer’s jacket fell open before her.

“Yes...yes,” One answer. “Ne—Ne—Nethercutt, sir,” and another. The boy’s stutter almost choked him. “Yes—yes, M’am. He—he almost sho—shot the captain—the captain ga—gave it up—he—he told me to give it to Cap—Cap—Grandia’s—wo—uh, the wo—man—counselor—“ His explanation descended into incoherence.

Ceeli pulled her hand free of the captain’s grip and caught the jacket before it dropped. Whatever Madine planned for by sending this over—well, a person had to give him points for being observant.

Not that she had ever been particularly fond of dead grey, she thought irreverently as she shrugged into the uniform. If only the Imperial captain had been more portly and taller. The garment fit badly, hanging only to her upper thighs. She could barely get it shut over the poncho. All these pretty rank plackets are no help whatsoever, either. Ceeli thought crossly, then paused. Captain’s colors; she liked that. She smiled. For the first time since her arrest, she felt—normal, ready to laugh. Yes.

And the jacket wasn’t flimsy; she’d settle for that now.

“Thank you, Mr. Nethercutt,” Ceeli acknowledged as, with a deep breath, she secured the upper clasps across her chest. The boy turned crimson.

Capt. Grandia, meanwhile, was gingerly managing his weight on his one unwounded leg. To him, she said, “We should get you aboard. Come along.”

It was good to hear that her command voice had returned as well.

Without her steadying hand, Grandia wobbled. Not that he noticed because he was staring at her. A sly comment about the rank on her breast came to Ceeli, but this was not the time for wit. Pity. She smiled when, much to her relief, the medic reached out to support the captain’s right elbow. In her experience, tentacles, no matter how familiar, never failed to distract humans.

“You go with Madine,” the Calamari rumbled at Nethercutt, reclaiming authority. “We will be leaving shortly, Grandia. I will see you back at command.” With a nod tempered by a stern carapace flare for Ceeli, the medic left the captain to her support and followed the last droid into the ship.

Ceeli put out a grey-clad arm. “As much as I hesitate to admit it, I suspect we’ll both need the other to make it up even that slight ramp.”

After a beat, the captain nodded. “Thank you, Ma’am,” and leaned into the sleeve, his arm across Ceeli’s back. Awkwardly, he limped up the ramp with her.

Inside the launch, other wounded rebels lay on pallets or leaned against the gray corridor walls. Ceeli helped Captain Grandia settle on one of the pallets, then sat down beside him. She shook a thin warmth sheet across her bare legs, noting a couple of shrouded bodies at one end of the hall. There had been deaths.

Still, not too many, she noted, A good clean raid.

And soon, very soon, Counselor Montesi would be very happy indeed to present her assessment of this marvelous action to Mon Mothma personally.

*****

Janka Issahm sat at the hull-side end of the conference table that filled most of Intelligence Control’s outer office on the Alliance command ship. He worked with his back to the wall display of the star sweep seen from the ALDERAAN bridge not so far down the corridor. He might have read his incoming reports at his work desk the other side of the door to his left, but the Intell hub was noisy even when no one sat at stations murmuring over data streams, or stood at maps parsing a never-ending need to interpret data that preferred not to be understood. These conference room wall panels could be dimmed to grey; the star sweep that inspired so many could be ignored. He could read here alone, in peace.

And in privacy. The early action report he just finished filled him with such a mix of pride, irritation, and anxiety that he was hard pressed not to exclaim out loud over the news.

They’d done it! They had started the replenishment of Alliance forces and spat in the eye of the Empire.

Issahm ordered the desk display control OFF and leaned back in his chair, hands gripping its smooth molded arms. The general gazed down the darkened table till he came to an empty seat, and felt his jaw tighten.

He’s done it. That arrogant Imperial Madine has pulled it off after all.

Issahm pushed aside his distaste for the major. No matter—Quinx was more than competent; he’d handle Madine. More important was this morning’s news, which was more than good, which would raise the spirit of all the Alliance fighters who dearly needed this success. With Mon Mothma’s rescue, and the arrival of Ackbar and his ships, the Alliance was starting to look forward again.

Ackbar. The plainspoken Calamari certainly had little tolerance for the political niceties and, Issahm knew, a definite streak of aggressiveness.

Ackbar would make a good Intelligence Chief, he thought eagerly. We need a Intelligence Chief who is accustomed to biting off the heads off its dinner.

Issahm nodded sharply and felt a familiar ache from his neck through his shoulders. He looked down and saw that his palms were gripping the chair arms, his fingers white against the smooth, molded resin. He let go, tried to shake off the tension, but his hands trembled.

Quinx. Ackbar. All he could think about was who else could do this job. He curled his fists, wishing that he felt the bravura this report would inspire. If the promises being made in meetings on Bothe and the reports from Coruscant agents could be counted on, very soon the Alliance would face finishing this ugly business once and for all,

Or they’d all be dead.

Issahm’s stomach hurt these days, his head felt woolly, like some dullard unprepared for an exam. He waited for today’s spell to pass, but it didn’t and it wouldn’t because he wasn’t sick.

No, he admitted to himself. Not sick. Scared. Issahm closed his eyes. All the time.

He could hear that damned Corellian Imperial thinking the same thing about him. It wasn’t just Madine, either. Issahm was Intelligence—he knew what they were saying, all the officers and soldiers on the ship. Every one of them intimidated him. Admit it! Had he ever thought he’d have to make the decisions he faced constantly now? Hadn’t Dodonna pulled him out of academia into Alliance service for his decision-making skills, assigned him logistics? Issahm had been very happy with logistics.

But thinking about his mentor only reminded Issahm of the special pain they both felt, of the losses that couldn’t fade when every report reminded him of what no longer existed, of the hopes that did fade more with each day. Issahm re-opened the file that had just come in. Names, names—Issahm scanned the prison ship’s list of prisoners, finding some from Naboo, Chandrila, But not…

Ah! Two from Alderaan! That’s right, Quinx said that someone important…

But—no, not anyone from the University, only lost folks, probably picked up for no more than their heritage and not for their knowledge. Issahm’s shoulders drooped. He always hoped for more.

He might as well check the casualties, now that the stats were relit on the desk. Issahm’s mood shaded. Gods, he thought, I hate this part.

The dead and wounded report rolled up. The general was glad not to see any Calamari names. Two soldiers to mourn, and seven or eight wounded. Better than could be expected. Issahm paused the file. One troop’s name was flagged.

Grandia, Michael. He should know—Naboo? He couldn’t remember, could barely bring up the face of the man.

But this Grandia had brought one of the Alderaani prisoners aboard the medical evacuation shuttle. Curious. Why had someone thought to mention this, let alone link back to—Issahm bolted upright even as the screen flashed with the prisoner’s name. An Alderaani, yes, and now he recognized this name. Not University, but he had met her, he was sure of it, working with —

Issahm tapped on the console to his right and brought up a second file, highly classified. As always, he felt momentary amazement that, as the Intelligence chief, he had free access to them all, from the lowest tech to highest command. He supposed such was necessary with the converted Imperials like Madine, but the need to keep files on people like Jan Dodonna or—

Ah! Here it is.

In the Alliance file on Mon Mothma, Supreme Commander, the general found an image, old but annotated. He felt a pang like a knife. It was of Bail Organa at a diplomatic soiree with Dodonna, Mon Mothma and another woman, all dressed for the event. Issahm dragged his attention back to today. He compared the annotation with the report from Major Quinx.

Yes! The same name. The woman on Grandia’s ship was senior on Mon Mothma’s staff, standing behind her, dressed formally with a sparkling necklace around her neck and her hair woven into a gold crown.

And she is from Alderaan!

Quickly, Issahm called up Montesi’s file. The association with Viceroy Bail Organa’s staff fairly jumped off the screen at him, and the room immediately felt less oppressive. When a new flag on the prisoners list appeared just then, noting that the wounded had arrived at the Alliance medical ship, Issahm nearly laughed out loud. Why, he’d go over and retrieve Councilor Montesi and bring her back to Mon Mothma himself.

Energized, Issahm waved all the files closed, absently palming the desk lock as he opened his comlink and issued orders for his assistant next door to get him a shuttle. That no one else had identified the woman astounded Issahm—then he laughed at himself. He was Intelligence; he was the person to notice such things. He left the room with a dignified sweep of his over-cloak and barely a glance for the empty end of the table.

*****

She was finally truly clean. Ceeli Montesi stood in the med-station relief station, hunting a dry spot on the small service towel she had found. She knew that she’d used every ounce of her allotted water but—this was necessary, no argument.

She could start over anywhere, any time, if she were clean.

The preliminary medical exam had been brief, efficient, and also required. Anti-virals were injected and more specific drugs would follow. She anticipated perfunctory questions from a psych droid as well, but none had appeared. Easily enough explained, she mused, patting the towel under her breasts. This shuttle had not been assigned to carry prisoners, those in danger of immediate mental collapse, hence the lack of life-size cleansing facilities to gently begin the rehabilitation process.

Well, there would be time enough for such things and their remedies. A long time, hovered in her thoughts warily, then she dismissed the assessment. With no conversation offered, she had chosen to bathe. Just washing the last of the Empire off her skin was therapy enough now.

She ran a hand over her head. Dammit, what could a person do with such short hair when wet? All it did was plaster itself sloppily against your skull or, worse, stick out over your ears! Make a braid and hair would lay tidy all day when done correctly, not that anything had been done correctly by the Imperials, anything decent—Oh, that’s enough of that! Montesi closed her eyes and unclenched her jaw. Then she hunted until she found another towel and rubbed the unruly hair dry. Using the polished steel above the water basin as a mirror, she finger-combed the thick growth into a passable style and shoved her raging irritation aside.

It wasn’t worth it.

Coming out of the small room, Ceeli saw a white tunic with pants laid out on the examination bench; grey slip-on shoes with white lining were tucked under the trouser hems. An Imperial jacket in a much darker grey lay beside the outfit, one arm spread out under the tunic, as if an instruction concerning use.

Droids. Ever helpful and ever annoying. _I suppose I’ll find underwear tucked into appropriate places—ah, yes. Serviceable white as well._

At least their thoroughness had not extended to that wretched poncho. Or had they watched in dismay as the flimsy thing fell apart in the cleaner? Ceeli certainly hoped it had dissolved; she had no need to see it again, in life, in dreams, or in therapy.

She pulled on the clothes—which fit, _thank you, droids_ —and felt warm despite the lower temperature in the room. Poncho acclimation, she supposed sourly.

Then she picked up the jacket, unsure of what to do with it. The heavy grey panels had provided borrowed security. Pulled tightly around her, the uniform hid the poncho, the bruises, her uncertainty when the shuttle docked and deck crew appeared to hurry the injured soldiers away to the watchful care of med droids, coming for her only after the troops were secured.

Grandia was long gone by then. He had watched her constantly, the captain had, from the shuttle loading through the jump to space, until someone removed his boot over that severely compromised ankle. He screamed, and the shuttle med-droid took over with a steadier hand and a quick sedative. Ceeli almost smiled.

 _But—of course, he watched; he was following orders, as they all did, whatever the uniform. But—as a friend,_ Montesi argued with herself _—not an enemy. His was the first kind face after—_ Her heart raced; she was alone! Ceeli found herself clutching the jacket as she struggled to breath slowly, easily, to give the fear no handhold. Why now this weakness?

Then, this moment passed. Calmer, determined to hold off the after-shock, she busied her hands by folding the jacket, closing its clasp, laying it on the bench, rank placket up. Her own escort from the shuttle had come soon enough, a Mon Calamari aide, quite soft-spoken if insistent. She had been taken aback to remember how soft a firm hand could be as he gave her up to her own med-droid.

The captain had been kind, too, when he didn’t have to be. People are like that. Really. Ceeli repeated that homely observation to herself. A plain psychological trick, but effective, even when played on oneself.

She shouldn’t be alone, not yet. Montesi knew it. Where had they taken the Captain and the others? Grandia seemed quite the unshakeable sort whatever his injuries; a person could lean on his support quietly, without fuss.

“And so, what do I do now?” she murmured to herself. “Can anyone tell me where I should go?” she asked in a louder voice. When no answer came from an unseen supervisor or lingering droid, she added. “All right. You’ll excuse me then.”

She smoothed the wrinkles of her fear from the Imperial jacket, laid it across her left arm, and boldly approached the door panel, which, much to her haunting panic’s surprise, opened.

The ubiquitous hiss of entry panels sliding open, the sound no one ever really heard, was melody to Ceeli’s ears. She stepped into the corridor and looked up and down a bright hall with recessed lighting, silvered blue trim along pale walls, sound-softening flooring. Across from her, another door suddenly slid open. A harried young human hurried out, still pulling a medical tunic over his head and talking earnestly into an ear-link. Still, he managed to nod and smile at Ceeli as he rushed by.

Definitely not Imperial.

The medic disappeared behind a double-wide barrier far along the corridor to her left. Following his lead, but only as far as a much closer short side-passage, Montesi could hear sounds that told of other people. She turned and found a bay with muted lighting where more than a few injured rebel troops lay on medical slabs. Droids attended their patients; they, too, only nodded at Ceeli, if they noticed her at all, as she walked into the station.

She was home. The realization stopped Ceeli. The exclusivity of where she stood caught in her throat. Alderaan was taken from her; and now the life she had made on Chandrila. She had spent the last three years there or on starships, with Mon Mothma, and then in search of her brother. The truth of events that had led to the necessity of her rescue sealed her exile, now all she had left were more ships—and only Alliance ships—to call her own.

She waited for her breath to slow, her heart to let go of its pain. When her eyes adjusted to the limited lighting, Ceeli saw Captain Grandia lying one bed short of a heavily instrumented wall. He wore an outfit like her own, white but for the soft reflection of ever-changing medical meter colors across the fabric. His elevated foot, encased in a bacta bandage, was leashed with multiple stimulus cords; Grandia himself was peacefully snoring.

The medical ward was actually busier than at first look, with various med-droids gliding silently from bed to bed, tending the soldiers. Ceeli didn’t see the one with whom she’d been dealing but no matter; it might demand that she leave. Droid obsession with everything in its place, and all that.

She found a chair tucked under a nearby comp station and guided it to the right of Grandia’s bed, the better to keep the other bed and the lighted wall at her back. She sat, draped the jacket across her lap, then sat back to wait on the Captain’s waking.

A quarter hour passed. Something changed, sparked Ceeli’s nerves. She looked up to see a trio of humans who had entered the bay looking back at her. With the barest heartbeat of a pause and with a robed officer in the lead, the men headed straight for her.

Ceeli’s hand tightened on the jacket. The leader was familiar. She knew his face, not one she had taken much notice of and long ago at that. Scrawny, she thought a bit anxiously, chooses the duster look the same as— Ah, she remembered the name. Issahm. One of Prince Bail’s experts. Pedantic little man, friend of Dodonna. What is he doing here?

“Counselor Montesi?” Professor Issahm pitched his voice low lest he disturb the invalids even as he came boldly up to and around the bed to face her, to hold out his hands in formal greeting. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

An Iktotchi on the bed behind her, between Grandia and the wall of lights, awakened anyway. He turned his head to watch, the lights playing on his short down-sweeping horns.

Ceeli caught herself staring. Something unspoken came into the room with these men, something her bruised senses could not quite identify. Not danger, at least not the sort that made her heart beat hard; not them, but us, she told herself. Politics, a different sort of bait and switch from the interrogation chamber.

“Thank you… I didn’t know you were here.”

He smiled in a kindly fashion and Ceeli reminded herself that this was her job, understanding the games, parsing the levels of intent; this was why she had survived. What is this man after? He wants something; any fool can see that. But, he’s changed so much from when we met on Alderaan. Almost ten years ago? Longer? And in uniform?

“When I read the action report, I knew I should greet you in person. I’m glad that the raid was so successful.”

“Yes, yes, it was. General Madine—“

Issahm’s brows snapped together. “Major. A new recruit.”

 _Ah. He doesn’t like Madine. Why?_ How to disarm that bomb? Montesi wished the captain were awake. Not that she couldn’t deal with such as Issahm—that was her job! She had juggled functionaries in her sleep—but she clearly needed to get back in the loop. The captain might know something she didn’t, something that scratched at the back of her attention.

“We’re fortunate,” she said, “that Major Madine’s raid —”

“Major Quinx led the raid.” Issahm caught himself this time. He added, “Madine did a good job. I passed a report to the Commander as to that.”

His attempt at fairness barely registered with Montesi. The Commander! Mon Mothma. Ceeli’s spirits rallied and she happily grabbed at the diversion. “How is she? Where is she?”

“I’ll take you to her!” Issahm held out his hands again. “Come with me.”

_My, he’s insistent._

Montesi froze. Why did she think that? Why did she hesitate when what she wanted more than anything was free for the taking, when the person for whom she would walk into a firefight without any idea of what arms were needed to win was waiting for her? Ferlins had taunted Ceeli with the fiasco on Hoth, with Imperial intelligence that reported the Alliance in disarray as founding officers and Imperial change-hearts battled over who was to blame. Had he actually told her something true? Was this some kind of political payback against Madine?

Or was she the one inventing trouble here? Were hers the tainted thoughts, damaged and distrustful after so long in Ferlin’s nasty little room? Ceeli caught her breath. Did Issahm actually believe that holovid?

Something was not right here. Montesi didn’t think it was her, but just sitting here, with her thoughts looping back to that damn vid, was no help. What she needed was a talk with Mothma; Mothma would solve the puzzle of the holo, and the local politics. Just the possibility of seeing Mothma alive was soothing and exciting all at once, and if Issahm could get her to Mothma…

 _Don’t complicate matters with unsupported speculations_ , Ceeli told herself. To Issahm, she said, “I… yes, I will,” and stood, casually sliding the jacket under the sleeping Grandia’s arm as she did so, making sure it was firmly held and unremarkable. Finally, she returned the professor’s greeting, taking his hands lightly. “And thank you.”

“Take my welcome in peace,” he replied happily and in perfect Alderaani.

His grip, so properly distant and so unlike the captain’s, reminded Ceeli to ask, “May I have a moment, though? I want to leave a message for Captain Grandia when he awakes, telling him that I’m going with you.”

Issahm shrugged. “That’s none of his business.”

“Madine ordered him to look after—“

“That’s of no consequence,” Issahm snapped again. “Major Madine performed well on the raid under Quinx’s orders who answers to mine. Shall we go, Counselor?” He stepped back to let her pass.

The rank at Issahm’s throat registered in Montesi’s attention for the first time. General. If she wanted to get to Mothma, this was her best chance. Politics. She was missing something, yes, but she was suddenly too tired to work it out. She nodded, “Yes. Let’s go.”

*****

Grandia was thinking again, and not about leftover excitement, or the pain that so often followed the action of his job. His mind drifted, randomly associating how he felt now with what had happened on the prison ship, and, in particular, with the woman who was his responsibility. Under a hand, on his chest, lay the thick weight of an Imperial jacket; because she had been wearing it, he knew that she was here and that he could open his eyes and see her.

He felt quite certain that no Imperial had ever filled this jacket as that woman had.

If he opened his eyes, he also knew that he’d see his foot encased in bacta, with stimulate packs attached. In a few days, he’d be back on his feet; if earlier raids were any measure, the med-droids could speed up healing on human bones to meet any schedule.

Counselor was her rank. The Major would be pleased that Grandia had taken care of her, even when pinned down with a broken ankle. His hand moved on the jacket, running into the edge of the rank plackets and he smiled.

Then—something didn’t feel right at all.

If he had the placket in hand, she had to be lying on him. Which she wasn’t. He’d feel a whole different way if she had been. His lips curved at the thought, then he frowned. No, she wasn’t here, and so why was he feeling the placket? Why did everything seem cool—cooler than if she was wearing it?

He had to open up his eyes. That took work.

After a silent struggle against the calming insistence of medication, he squinted down the line of his body.

The jacket lay under his hand. It was empty.

Grandia looked right, looked left. A typical med-ship ward, yes. His foot suspended with the medication, just as he thought, but no—what was the name? Ceeli. There was no Ceeli here.

Where is she?

He turned his head to the right again and saw the Iktotchi in the next bed looking straight at him. Grandia knew the trooper. Of course he did. Someone from the raid. It just took a moment to see past the wrapping that covered most of the trooper’s face. Look at that nicked horn. Oh, sure, he remembered that blast. The name was Barl.

“Your woman,” Barl said, his words muffled by his bandages. “The woman. She is gone.”

“What? Where?” Grandia started to struggle upright. He’d attract attention of the med-droids, but he had to know. “Where did she go?” He insisted, holding up a hand against the wall light that flared through the ragged edge in Barl’s right horn. “When?”

“Hours ago,” Barl replied. “General Issahm took her. “

Grandia stared, squinting, at him. “Issahm?”

“He knew her. He took her to Mon Mothma.”

“He did?” Now Grandia was all too awake. And he didn’t remember running a check. “Well then… I guess Madine sent in a report,” Grandia said slowly, as thinking, training and habit wiped the woman from his mind’s eye, replacing her with an indistinct Unknown. “Clearance for the command ship.”

“Issahm doesn’t like the Major,” the Iktotchi observed, then paused, considered, and added, “Are you sure he’s had time to file a report on the prisoners?”

Grandia untangled the pronouns. “Madine? I’m sure… I hope… hours ago?” He looked around. “I need a comlink.”

“Why?” Barl was interested from the glint in his eye. “If General Issahm said—“

“What if the report hadn’t been filed?" Grandia did not feel good at all now. "What if she’s an Imperial sleeper? What if—“

Barl nodded. “The Major is very protective of the Commander. Everyone knows this. Though he showed strangely in that holovid.”

“The holovid was a lie, I’m sure of it,” Grandia insisted. His voice rose. He looked around. “Hey! I need a comlink!”

A med droid glided over. “Calm down,” it crooned, soothed.

Grandia stared at it with rising frustration. “Comlink. Now.”

“He will calm down if you get the comlink,” Barl advised the ‘droid. “Otherwise he will yell.”

The ‘droid looked from one to the other, then nodded. “Wait.”

How he would reach Madine, Grandia wasn’t sure, but he had to try. “Communications, this is Grandia” he snapped when the droid returned with a live ship-line. “I need to a link to Major Madine, now!”

*****

On a shuttle screen, Ceeli watched the command ship slowly fill the view. Habit and professional pride were convinced that this was not the best way to come home but were unable to counter an overwhelming need to see Mon Mothma alive and breathing and always one step ahead of Ceeli in understanding what was going on around here. Montesi smiled to think about thirty years of trying (and usually failing) to anticipate the Chandrilan woman. When she stood at the Commander’s right hand, again enabling Mon Mothma to keep on doing what she did so well, the ground beneath Ceeli’s weary feet would be solid again She had been too long afloat in enemy miasma and she longed for a familiar reality too fiercely to waste energy worrying doubts about Professor—General Issahm.

Still, how could anyone ignore the man sitting with her, so unduly solicitous (if she didn’t mention Major Madine), so obviously craving something, if too shy to ask in the face of her injuries. He didn’t just keep an eye on Ceeli, he stared, irritating her so much that she asked for food, just to give him something to do. Finding only rations, which he refused to serve, and some spiced water drinks, Issahm poured the latter with great care. Then he sat and watched her drink. All Ceeli could think to do then was to ask about the Rebellion, which started a dump of information that distracted the man.

The report was bothersome, though, with far too much raw data. How could so much have happened in just a month, even with the chaos after Hoth? Montesi sipped lightly while Issahm droned on. The man must think like a droid, unable to ignore any of the least necessary details. Oh, there was politics a plenty, but little enough analysis. He runs the Intelligence branch? What are they thinking?

What was she thinking, taking this drink? There had been food on the med-ship; now this water was nearly too much for her shrunken stomach.

Ceeli’s mind wandered. She felt ill at ease and didn’t know why. The longer Issahm talked, the more inclined she was to blame him. She suspected that Mothma didn’t trust the man. In fact, after listening a while Ceeli felt quite certain that Issahm’s commander hadn’t shared any plans with him. There was a great deal she didn’t know about what had happened since Hoth fell, but this man could not fill in the empty spaces. Give her an hour or two with Mothma and all would be clear.

And when that had happened—Very soon now!—she’d be able to put all of the last month behind her.

Montesi looked back at the view screen. Filling the monitor was the RSS ALDERAAN, its wide portside bay lit and welcoming. Her sudden sharp breath caught the general’s attention; he looked up, then turned quickly to his aide with orders to prepare for docking. Anticipation so filled Montesi’s reaction to the sight—and a waver of anxiety. Where is that coming from? I’ll almost there! —that she had to feel Issahm’s hand pull at her elbow before she noticed that he had come back to her lead her away.

Mothma has to be working around him. Ceeli couldn’t wait to hear about it. And Coruscant! What happened there? How does the Major fit in? She felt almost giddy, but—Mothma will explain it all, she told herself, happily.

*****

The ALDERAAN bay was crowded. Montesi saw damaged ships and knew they’d come from the battle for her ship. She heard laughter among the crews and felt their excitement in the raid’s success as surely as she smelled fuel and hot metal. So many Calamari surprised her, but all the languages, frills, feathers and colors of the Alliance’s allied races could only add to the pride she felt in her fellow rebels. The mean limitations of Imperial prejudices were pitiful in comparison; Ceeli would never again complain about a harsh claw grip or whiff of alien breath. Not that she had the chance to indulge a temptation to complain just now—Issahm led her through the crowd almost unnoticed. When he was seen, there were distant salutes, but those were few.

 _That wouldn’t be happen with Madine_ , came an unexpected thought.

The Alderaani general, followed by his two aides, led Montesi through winding corridors until he stopped at a small outer office bay. A Zabrak sat at a desk much too small for it, his forehead drawn tight as it stared at something on the desk screen. Issahm walked up without stopping, had nearly passed the desk before the being looked up, startled.

“Sir!”

“I will see the Commander,” Issahm ordered more assertively than Ceeli had thought possible.

“Admiral Akbar is with her,” the Zabrak replied, rising quickly. “I will ask—“

“That will do fine,” Issahm interrupted him, barely pausing. “Let us in.”

The Zabrak’s frown deepened but Issahm’s rank could not be ignored..With a light touch at his rank pin, the general continued on confidently toward the inner office door, which opened even as the Zabrak flipped the office com to announce his arrival

Ceeli’s anxieties roared back into the forefront of her attention and she did not want to be here, to be here now, to be here with Issahm. Again, she had to feel a tug at her elbow from Issahm’s aides before she moved forward.

A specific reason why she hesitated still hid on the edge of her awareness, difficult to hear over the high sweet scent of Chandrila meadowsweet that Ceeli caught as they stepped through the open office door, no matter the competition of Calamari, Zabrak, and Alderaani male between her and the woman inside. She knew she would recognize the dissonance soon it enough, most probably the moment that the wall slid shut firmly behind her party and they stood before Chandrila itself in the person of the Alliance Supreme Commander.

It was her, sitting at the desk, turned away from the door and facing an older calamari officer, her posture as familiar to Ceeli as the perfume she wore. Mothma looked first to her aide for an explanation of the intrusion, for information on how to recognize whoever stood waiting for the Commander’s attention. In his annoyance, the Zabrak said nothing; not a good move on his part. Montesi stayed behind Issahm, the better to avoid being marked with the Senator’s irritation and to hide her own sniff of bemused assessment.

Mothma’s face showed shock, confusion, and finally annoyance as she turned to face her visitors and saw Issahm. “General? What is this?”

“Commander, I have a surprise for you,” Issahm said, his tone full of satisfaction. He stepped aside too quickly for Ceeli to move with him; worse, his aides fell back as he did so, leaving her standing alone and exposed. With a grand oratorical gesture, the general declared, “We have retrieved counselor, Mistress Montesi!”

*****

Crix Madine walked through the crowd in the bay, noting the smiling troops and their easy laughter. He’d finished the after-action report with Quinx, shipped it off, and now would relax as much as he could.

He felt good, satisfied with a successful action and his part in it. Ready for the next job, he knew, a familiar reaction and welcome.

He was also very aware that the raid had bought him some entry into the rebels’ ranks. It would take more than one foray to secure his status. True, this was a start, and offered an opening to talk about why he left the Empire. He’d come to suspect that most of the officers—let alone the regular troops—had no reasonable idea about that. He certainly hadn’t overheard any such talk, only too many references to the Emperor’s nasty story telling.

 _After all, no one’s asked me outright… yet_ , he thought as he laughed at a quip from one of the troopers. I have to find a way to tell them the truth about how I got here, the truth to combat that damned holovid!

Someone raised his hand, waved. He recognized Amman and nodded in return. Madine walked toward a stairway and the trooper fell in beside him. Silently they climbed to the upper deck, away from the joyous crowds.

“Good job, sir,” Amman said when they reached the open deck. He paused and looked back down at the busy crews. “We could do another raid right now.”

Madine glanced at him. “The prison camp? Yes, we could. Then what would we do? There’s no place to put that number of prisoners. No one to guard them with more fighting to come.”

Amman nodded. Madine leaned on the banister, anticipating an easy talk, then stepped back. The rail didn’t feel solid. Amman chuckled. Madine shook his head in honest astonishment and stepped even further back, graciously allowing the other man the side of the deck with a view. They walked on.

“Why are you here?”Madine asked without preamble.

“Peles,” Amman said flatly.

“That was a long time ago,” Madine said, not looking at him, at the bad memory.

“After you sent us to deliver the Ambassador, we were assigned to digging out the base,” Amman said. “It was deep in mud and water and dead troopers. I got a chance to look at the break in the dam. It wasn’t a normal fail.”

“It was a political action,” Madine murmured. “Tarkin and Vader bombed it to shift the balance of power away from the Pelesian rebels and back to the Empire. That was clear from the time I spent on his ship. I couldn’t get back to you.”

Amman nodded. “We know… sir. My time was up after that, Most of the troop signed up again; I left. Bummed around until I found the Rebellion.”

Madine nodded. “Everyone’s got a reason for joining, don’t they?”

Coming up on the entry to the inner corridor, Amman stopped. His back to the bay, he looked more at the wall than at Madine. “We’ve heard a lot about you, sir, about how you got here.” He caught Madine’s wince, shrugged and continued. “Never knew you would go at a woman. Even the Commander.”

“The holovid was a lie!” Madine snapped angrily. “The Emperor’s lie—“

“I know,” Amman cut in. “I’ve told the others but… it makes a good story.”

Madine slammed his hand on the wall. The railing clattered where it wrapped around to join the exit frame, which boomed like a drum through the noisy bay. Over the other man’s shoulder he could see the crowd below look up as one. Madine took a deep breath, forced a brittle grimace.

Surprisingly, Amman turned slightly, held up his hand, nodded reassuringly, and the crowd turned away, its noise rising again, the interruption glossed over.

The exit door slid open. Three Sullae hurried through, chittering too fast for human ears to catch their concerns. They noticed Amman, pulled up short for a second of silence, then hurried on down the stairs.

Madine watched them for a moment, then, “You’re more than just a sergeant, aren’t you?”

“Content to be where I am, sir,” Amman said flatly. “Would you have shot that captain, sir?”

Madine’s gaze flicked out to the rejoicing room, then back to the door, not meeting Amman’s. “I shouldn’t have. He said what everyone else is thinking, didn’t he?”

Amman’s narrowed. “Everyone’s talking, yes.”

“How do I stop it?”

Amman didn’t reply for a second. Before Madine could say more, he asked, “What’s your next plan?”

Madine accepted the change of topic—back to work. “Not my call,” he shrugged. “Quinx is in charge.”

“Ackbar’s nephew,” Amman said. “Good fighter, but doesn’t know his enemy well. None of the non-humans do. It’s a flaw.”

Madine knew that was true. During the Clone Wars, planetary militias were common enough, but once the Empire was announced they were soon put in their place. The dominating military became human and Imperial. Officers like Madine, with his pre-Empire training, had become scarcer over the years. one more reason the Alliance appealed—

His comlink flashed. He acknowledged.

Quinx, sounding panicked, “Madine, come up here!”

Madine frowned. “Coming,” he said, and clicked off.

Amman cocked his head. “Trouble, sir?”

”Probably not. Calamari always sound more panicked than they are.”

“You always did know more about non-humans than anyone I knew back then. Must be your Corellian heritage… sir.”

“Corellian Navy experience,” Madine corrected. “back in the old days. Come on. I may need some one at my back up there.”

  
*****

Montesi took two steps to one side so she stood clear of Issahm, who had not yet figured out why his grand presentation was being met with anger. The longer he took to answer his Commander’s demand for an explanation of what he thought perfectly clear, the deeper the tense silence.

The Commander had a way of scanning a group of people that left each feeling that her attention was on that person alone, all the while she took in more than any of them ever wanted to tell her. In this way, she could also catch her aide’s eye if necessary with an order, a reaction, or sometimes, just an assurance that at least two people in the room, she and Montesi, were sane.

Gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached, Montesi suppressed a surge of irrational giddiness. She wouldn’t laugh, of course; what an absurd idea, but she felt almost unable to contain a staggering relief, joy, gratitude that, however she came to be standing in this office, she was indeed here! Somehow, just as fervently she wished that she was not here, still unsteady on her feet, so vulnerable after—

Mothma’s glance caught Ceeli on the verge of freefall. If there was the faintest flash of shock, Mothma snapped it back so quickly that Ceeli was sucked into the woman’s discipline and felt the ground freeze hard under her. She stared straight ahead, not at Mothma, not at that globe of Alderaan, not at anything at all lest she betray herself again.

When the Commander’s silent review was finished with Issahm’s aides and on its way back to the General, Montesi could not avoid that steady gaze. A flick of humor came with Mon Mothma’s next notice of her. Only the faintest of hesitations it was, and the others would think it a sympathetic assessment, or pity, but Ceeli knew better. It was a familiar laugh, another point in a quarter-century’s long contention between them; an astonishment at the white medical outfit Montesi wore, at the short hair, spiked where it was not falling in her tired eyes.

And with that assurance of their friendship, Ceeli Montesi’s world fell back into place at last. She would never hear the end of how she looked today and she didn’t care at all.

*****

Reaching the command bridge, Madine and Amman found Major Quinx talking with Captain Alahim. Conversation stopped at their entrance, but Madine didn’t sense any hostility in the air. “What’s the problem?” he asked the officer standing at the engineering console.

Before she could answer, Quinx rapidly waggled his fingers at a receiver pad. “An urgent call for you. It just arrived.”

The holo of Grandia certainly looked upset. Someone activated the figure and the captain blurted, “Sir! I lost her!”

“What?” Madine snapped, any touch of relaxation gone.

The recording went on, Grandia in a hurry. “General Issahm took her to the Command ship to see the Commander! I was unconscious and couldn’t stop it.” Over his words, they heard the soothing murmuring of a med-droid. “I felt—not now!—Sir, you should know right —“ Grandia yelped. The image vanished, the link broken.

“Did anyone file a report on Ceeli Montesi to Command?” Madine demanded, looking around.

Nobody moved. Quinx finally blinked a rapid reassurance. “An identifier, yes. The others were included in the report on the prisoners.” he splayed a hand on the console and leaned on it, a bit of calamari confidence. “She was contained on the medical ship.”

“And now she’s on the Command ship and not vetted!” Madine accused. “What kind of an operation are you running here?”

The lack of reaction was now beyond irritating. Only Quinx’ chin whiskers shivered, betraying inner conflict. From behind, Madine heard Amman say, “We lost much on Hoth. General Rieekan is gone. We’re rebuilding.”

Madine heard the constraint in the quiet words. He realized that he stood too at-ready, his stance all wrong, and took a deep breath, regretting his outburst. This wasn’t helping him with his fellows, he could tell. _Thank you, sergeant._

But, damn it, it had been provoked. Security should be the top element for leaders of a rebellion! And having to count on such a week reed as Issahm — Madine’s contempt for the man deepened every time he found something the Alderaani had left undone. The man was ridiculous.

But—Amman was right and Madine knew it, was reminded of their dire straits every day just by walking up a staircase, leaning on a railing. He had to prove that he understood, prove himself a Rebel.

He was one now, wasn’t he? That was what this action was about, right? What else could he be, considering his opinions on what had become of the Empire? Realistically, there was nothing outside the rebellion for someone like him, a man with the Emperor’s death mark on him, as well as the attention of Vader and his pet bounty hunters.

The readjustment took no more than a moment. Madine let out his breath. “Well, toast luck for being with us this time,” he said. “At least it happened with Ceeli Montesi and not some stranger.” Madine walked over to a console, turned around and rested his hips against the edge of the control panel. He resisted the temptation to cross his arms. “I’m sure she was pushed, but she’s also one of the stubbornest women I ever met—I doubt she’s a danger.”

Again that silence, but now everyone who stared at him seemed puzzled, not offended.

Then, “You know her?” Quinx asking.

“Montesi? Sure. She’s been Mothma—the Commander’s—chief aide for as long as … oh, since I met her at least on – Ten - twelve years ago?” Madine mused, parsing which of the officers here had the status to object to the Commander’s Aide being taking to see the Commander; obviously, Issahm thought status trumped security or common sense in such circumstances. “Hm, yeah. I met her on Alderaan.”

“After Peles, then.”

Madine stared, then realized how Amman had provided an opening. On the edge of his sight, he could see the Zabrak officers, notorious gossips, listening with great interest. Word would spread. “Long after. Montesi, that is, yes. Ah, I’ve got it!” Straightening, Madine looked around himself. “I know how to solve this.” He found the necessary console panel and hit a button, “Nethercutt, report to the bridge immediately.”

Amman grimaced, something that Madine didn’t miss. “What?”

“He’s already terrified of you, sir,” Amman said bluntly. “It’ll take some time to calm him down when he gets here.”

“Calm him down?“ Madine exclaimed. But he didn’t go on. He wanted to, that and more, Instead, he gazed at the far wall for a second, then looked directly at Amman. “I have to stop this, don’t I?”

“You’re not in the Empire, any longer, sir.” Amman said.

 _No kidding._ Madine blinked away the silent sarcasm. This wasn’t comfortable. Probably necessary. More interesting if it weren’t him at the center of attention.

“There are more ways of getting the best out of the troops than fear.”

He knew that. Amman knew that he knew it. A little fear was a reasonable tool, fairly used. The word the others heard was probably terror; but Madine had never terrorized his men, no matter the useful suggestions that passed for officer training these days.

“How—how long you have known him?” Madine asked, intrigued, almost forgetting that this wasn’t just between him and Amman. “He seems…nervous.”

The man seemed to slip naturally into the old reporting role. “I found him trying to get on a ship out of his home world because he was to report to the draft the next day, and we—they—would have eaten him alive.”

The correction was quick, casual, unimportant; probably as calculated as was his posture. Madine filed the observation for future consideration.

“He had the guts to run,” Amman continued. “I didn’t know he was going to be so good with computers. He’s got a knack with ‘droids and rebuilding. Curious mind. Flexible. A kid.”

That was a reproof—something that Trooper Amman wouldn’t have dared to venture before. Another example for the Major: in this new world, he would have to be as flexible as young Nethercutt to survive.

The door slid open and the boy appeared, looking as white as his eyes. “Sirr….rr.rr,” he stuttered. He noted the other officers in the room, but he stared at the Major.

Madine met Amman’s eyes for a second, then turned to Nethercutt. “You downloaded all the information in the prison ship’s databanks, did you?”

The boy nodded.

“Good. I want you to retrieve a file. The name is Montesi. Can you do it?” Madine swung a chair around for Nethercutt to sit in. “Find it as fast as you can,” he added as casually as he could when the tech did not immediately jump into the seat.

“Would it be false?” Quinx asked, his large eyes blinking slowly at Madine. “Her file.”

Madine shook his head. “Not likely, unless this entire raid was constructed to get her on the Command ship, and that would be too big a coincidence for even the Empire. Believe me—we don’t plan that well.”

He paused. He saw glances exchanged among the other officers. He had missed the moment to casually change that ‘we” to “they.”

And that brought the silence to inspire Quinx to repeat Amman’s question, “But how do you know the Commander?” adding, “I’ve seen the holo…”

Madine saw red.

“…and it is a lie because she is alive,” The Major’s affirmation denied purchase for Madine’s anger. Then, Quinx added, “But you say that you do know her.”

Madine caught himself. He knew that, behind him, Nethercutt was—finally—working his board hard. He remembered the opening Amman had given him. This was not a problem. Still, it was hard to miss the flair of intensity that could appear in a Zabrack’s stare. Or to dismiss the observation that Alahim’s humans on the command crew were not fidgeting.

All the training he had received in his military career, from a cadet on Corell through the killing endurances of special forces, all his experience in the field, had taught Madine when to recognize when it was time to move, not think; when it was time to rely on ingrained habit and whatever knowledge he could call on to get him to his goal. This was such a moment. He was good at such things; he was still alive.

But, the weapons here were words, and the most recent lessons he had taken in such self-defense were just moments old.

He was in Mothma’s world of expertise now. Madine preferred the clean danger of action to the deceptive morass of clever chatter. But he was no fool at talking either; he was still alive.

“I’ve known Mon Mothma over twenty years,” Madine said. _How much should he tell them? As much as I can stand_. “The night the Emperor moved against the Jedi, two men tried to assassinate her. I stopped them. Didn’t know—“

“How?” asked Amman, open fascination overriding his professional interest.

“Well… I didn’t know they were anything more than two obnoxious bastards in an aircar that cut me off. I had a night of leave. I chased after them to have a word—and saw the attack. Nearly went away, but one of them shot at me, and I shot back.” Madine shrugged. “I was a better shooter.”

He smiled unexpectedly in amusement and saw their surprised looks. “I took her—Mothma—back to the LYDIA, my ship—uh, not my ship—I was a junior officer on her. Corellian Navy. Back when many of the systems had their own defenses against the Separatists.

The reference didn’t spark any recognition. Madine was struck by how young everyone was on the bridge. To these officers, the Republic was a fantasy, discredited in the years since it fell. Madine certainly had never heard anyone defend it.

Then again, why would I? My friends were all Imperial military—everyone but Mothma. And Bail. And Dorris… so few outside of the Empire.

Madine pulled himself back from the past. Amman’s tone certainly had a touch of skepticism. He was the one to convince—the others would take the sergeant’s lead. Whoever Amman had become, the man was a power in the Rebellion—Alliance.

“We, well,” Madine spread his hands slightly,.“She and I kept in touch. Twenty years,” he repeated, then corrected himself. “Twenty-four.”

_Damn had it been that long?_

”Anyway, I didn’t know she was on Coruscant until the Emperor ordered me to execute her.”

That statement sharpened their attention. In fact, it hovered like an unexploded bomb that no one could take their eyes off, waiting for the anti-gravs to fail. Finally Amman prompted, “And you refused.”

“No. I poisoned her but after I set up a way to get her off Coruscant,” Madine said in a cool tone. “It had to be good enough to trick the Emperor. I didn’t expect to survive, Amman. I didn’t think he’d let me live.”

“He’ll kill you if he catches you,… sir.”

“That’s right,” Madine corrected. “After—if—he catches us. He wants her and me alive—together. So we’ll die together.”

He was certain the Emperor did not want to be robbed of that simple pleasure.

Into the silence. Nethercutt, who had been working hard, swung around, his face hopeful. “I’ve got the file, sir!” he exclaimed into the awkward exchange.

*****

Everyone in the room seemed to leap into the proffered action, however small. Quinx, Madine, and Amman took position beside and behind Nethercutt; the other officers crowded around.

“Play the summary,” Madine told the tech. His softened voice, touched with gratitude for the distraction, scored direct effect on the boy who beamed, then swung back to press keys. “We don’t need to see the evidence.” Madine added quickly. ”The officer of record will tell us what we need to know.”

Amman nodded. “This report goes straight to the head of Interrogation,” he explained for the other officers. “It won’t have been tampered with. Why should they?

“No reason,” Madine agreed, even as suspicions about Amman hummed again in the back of his thoughts. Certainly not the trooper Madine had known, nor just a trainer of the rebellion’s troops. There was more going on with the man, but—later.

“Play it,” Madine reminded the boy.

The holo-figure that hovered on the console receiver was typical of the world Madine had left behind. He wouldn’t have been able to pick out the officer—Ferlins? Yes, that was the name—Ferlins in a crowd. Of medium-height he was, with faded brown hair, cranked up posture and reeking of self-importance.

Did the man look that way on all these files? Montesi was a Senator’s aide, true, and more important than the others. Maybe—maybe much more important after a thorough interrogation.

Unhappy with the thought, Madine dragged his attention back to the holo as the man began his report.

CEELI MONTASI WAS ARRESTED AT THE CHANDRILA SPACEPORT AFTER A REPORT WAS MADE OF HER ARRIVAL. HER IDENTITY WAS CONFIRMED BY SEVERAL INCLUDING HER FORMER HUSBAND, DOHN CAARDERT. HE WAS RELEASED AFTER QUESTIONING.

MONTASI HAD BEEN AMONG THE ALDERAANI COMMUNITIES BEFORE HER RETURN. SHE SAYS SHE WAS LOOKING FOR A FAMILY MEMBER BUT WAS UNABLE TO FIND HIM.

HER DUTIES WERE AS AIDE AND ADMINISTRATOR TO MON MOTHMA, FORMER SENATOR FROM CHANDRILA, IN HER POSITION AS AGRICULTURAL TRADE REPRESENTATIVE.

WE EXTENSIVELY QUESTIONED HER USING LEVELS ONE AND TWO BUT SHE DENIES ANY CONNECTION WITH THE REBELLION.

Madine winced. He knew what those levels meant. Montesi would definitely need some physical and psychological care. No matter how tough she was, the techniques used were dedicated to breaking a person.

Ferlins continued,

THE USE OF THE HOLOVID REGARDING MON MOTHMA AND THE TRAITOR MADINE WERE PLAYED IN ROTATION BUT SOON BECAME INEFFECTIVE. MORE EXTENSIVE RECORDS OF OUR MEASURES ARE INCLUDED AS PART OF THIS REPORT.

I AM CONVINCED THAT MONTASI KNOWS MORE THAN SHE HAS TOLD US. AN EXAMINATION OF HER TRAVEL RECORDS SHOW SUSPICIOUS STOPS ON BOTHA AND PITART, WHICH ARE WORTHY OF FURTHER INVESTIGATION.

 _Which is worthy of your future consideration, of course._ Madine’s clenched jaw ached at the thought of good officer Ferlins. He had no doubt that the man’s recommendations were under consideration. He hoped the innocents caught in Ferlins’ recommended net might escape.

He caught back a wry smile. There, he had just had a good rebel reaction and no one but him to hear it.

RECORD END.

The figure in grey flicked off leaving the deck in silence.

Quinx finally stirred. “Then she is no danger to the Commander?”

Madine nodded. “On the basis of this, she’s no danger.” Still frowning, he rubbed a thumb along his jawline. “She’ll need debriefing, psych care, but I’d clear her preliminarily. We’d have to scan the other files—“

“We can do that!” Nethercutt said, cheerfully reaching for the controls.

Madine caught his hand. “Not necessary now. Just keep them open to command level.”

“Ferlins is a squeaker-placket,” Amman commented unexpectedly.

Madine glanced at him, then nodded. “Small man seeking to make his career on others,” he added for Nethercutt’s benefit before the inevitable question came. “He’ll be at that rank, making life miserable for everyone until he retires… or dies.”

A soft, short laugh at his back seemed to approve the latter

Amman shrugged. “Not a great loss, sir, even to the Empire.”

“No need to be that generous,” came a counter from another officer.

Quinx ended the lesson in peer group regard. He cocked his head to give both Madine and Amman a meaningful Calamari look. “We should contact the command ship, and tell them,” He said, waving at his communications officer, who busied himself on the console. “She is cleared by you, Major?”

Madine shook his head . “You’d better sign off on it, Quinx, or you’ll never get Issahm—the General—to accept it. I’m not exactly in position to sign off on a potential Imperial spy.”

Amman chuckled. Nethercutt just looked puzzled, and Quinx nodded. “I’ll transmit it to General Issahm.”

“Gods know where Montesi is now, so you’d probably better inform the Commander and your Admiral also,” Amman suggested.

“Good idea,” Madine agreed, allowing his curiosity a second—just a second, no more—to guess at Amman’s true rank. Turning a genial grin to Nethercutt, he added, “Good job, Private.”

Madine caught Amman smirking. He scowled back. Beside them, he felt Quinx lean in, then turn away to talk to another calamari as if thinking better of the need to interfere, Madine didn’t lighten his dark look much and Amman didn’t look more impressed with Madine’s sudden sociability, but each man could see laughter in the other’s eyes.

Major Madine felt his world slip a bit more securely into its new foundation then. One of his troopers was with him among the hostiles, and that made the Rebellion a little less hostile after all.

*****

In the small command office, Mon Mothma’s face slipped back into its diplomatic disguise. Ceeli nodded slightly, letting her own professional mask reclaim its control of her duty. “Senator?” Montesi said dryly before General Issahm found his voice again, “I have come from Chandrila to help you. I apologize for the delay in my return date. It will not happen again.”

Did the Commander struggle with an open smile, a laugh? Perhaps that was Ceeli’s imagination. Mon Mothma did nod, her eyes bright as she politely replied, “I do need you badly, Ceeli.”

“Who is this?” The Calamari boomed suddenly.

Issahm answered just as abruptly, his annoyance freed to flare at a target other than his Commander, “This is Ceeli Montesi of Alderaan, who was the Senator’s aide on Chandrila, Admiral. She was on the prison ship.”

Ceeli watched the way Mothma’s eyes shifted from Issahm to Ackbar; a wealth of information having passed to the Commander with the general’s statement.

“Major Quinx’s raid,” Mon Mothma said to the Calamari.

“Madine and Quinx’s,” the Admiral replied. “A good job. They should be here shortly to give us a full report.” He turned abruptly and leaned toward the Alderaani officer. “I didn’t hear anything about her in your report, General Issahm.”

Ceeli felt, as much as saw Issahm stiffen. “I wanted to see if was true first,” he explained.

“Then you will give us a full report soon,” Mothma said

To her right, on the edge of her sight, Ceeli saw the Zabrak step fully inside the office, its hand on a weapon, another Security guard beside him. He stared hard at Montesi and—

Immediately her discomfort with Issahm’s insistence on presenting her immediately to Command was obvious, Montesi almost blushed. Of course Mothma’s aide had tried to stop them because it knew that —

_What an idiot! They haven’t done a security check on me._

“I’m sure that Major Madine will—“ Ceeli heard herself speak. _Vouch for her,_ she meant, but what the others heard was —

“Quinx!” Issahm snapped. Both Mothma and Ackbar shot him looks of surprise. “Major Quinx, and Madine, will be here shortly,” the general repeated, his mouth set in a hard line.

“—then maybe we should wait—,” Ceeli continued carefully.

Her confidence wavered as scenes from the last month flashed in her mind’s eye and dark possibilities whispered through her thoughts. She should not be here. She should leave, but could not on her own; no matter the men standing close on all sides, her legs would not move, nor her eyes leave Mothma. But she could keep her voice as steady and impersonal as anyone here had ever heard her speak. For a little while. She could do that, yes.

“—until you have more security, Senator,” Montesi finished, refusing to think about all the possibilities she knew must be running through that Zabrak’s mind.

A faint pause of disapproval, then Mothma smiled slightly and let the hands held clasped at her waist drop every so slightly. _Wait and see,_ indeed; an old signal between her and Montesi. “Thank you, Counselor,” she said, formally. “Karaki, please escort Mistress Montesi to the briefing room until I call for you.”

It nodded, as did Ceeli, who embraced the comfort of things being done the way she understood. The clearance would come in a proper time, and at that time she’d have all the answers she wanted as well. All would be well.

“I’ll go greet them,” Ackbar said gruffly before Montesi and the Zabrak could turn and go. “I haven’t met this Madine in person. Only on that holovid—“

Ceeli froze. Everyone else did.

“Which is not—” Mothma stopped; she took a breath. “That’s a good idea, Admiral. General Issahm, please stay. I have to discuss things with you.”

 _The general might never forgive the admiral for that set-up_ , Ceeli thought. Behind her, the Zabrak exhaled his impatience; she found her feet again and stepped back beside it. When her briefing was finished, when the day’s schedule was met and the Commander free to talk, Ceeli would hear what happened to Issahm, whatever bits of him staggered out, bloodied and battered after Mon Mothma had delicately filleted him. Then she and Ceeli would both step back into their own story and talk about prison ships and Imperials, poisons and Coruscant, and what Mothma needed Ceeli to do tomorrow.

For now, Montesi and Karaki turned and went through the open office door, Admiral Ackbar on their heels.

 

  
The wall slid shut on Ackbar, silver blanking out white. Mon Mothma waited a moment, to allow the illusion that she wished to secure privacy from any inadvertent eavesdropping. Issahm’s indiscretion—imagine bringing Ceeli to the Command ship without clearance!—had crystallized her decision about what to do with the man. Still, however impatient she felt with him, this was going to be a difficult discussion and she needed to have the Alderaani walk away feeling secure, appreciated, and very happy to be starting a different job.

“Please sit down,” she said quietly, sitting behind her desk. “We need to talk about this.”

Issahm’s shoulders slumped slightly. He found a seat but his face remained full of resentment.

“Thank you for finding Counselor Montesi,” Mothma started by playing to his accomplishment. “Once she’s recovered, she’s… General, I do need Ceeli badly here.” _I would have appreciated it more if it had been done by the rules, but, that can be discussed next._

Issahm relaxed slightly. “I am glad that I can help, Commander. I felt it was important,” he looked directly at Mon Mothma at last, “however, I believe others might not view – “ he hesitated. His assertion wavered in the silence. ”I should have check her more carefully,” Issahm said at last.

“Yes, you should have.” Mothma let the following silence color her abrupt agreement in any way Issahm wanted to imagine. “The rule on prisoner clearances exists for a reason,” she continued when Issahm betrayed no inclination to argue. “There is a problem with Imperial spies, even here on the ALDERAAN.”

She relaxed, ever so slightly, let the general catch an exasperated glance at the closed door. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have Lt. Karaki on my heels every day, would I?”

Issahm nodded, accepting the reproof—perhaps he remembered the meeting with Security over the Zabrak’s assignment—and her offer to sympathize. “It is a problem, yes.”

“That is why—and I’m sorry to make this decision right after you’ve given me such a gift with Ceeli—I’m replacing you as Intelligence chief.”

He was shocked, clearly, but accepted it faster than she’d anticipated. In fact, she could see his shoulders rise, as if released from fading pressure.“I can understand that, Commander. I’m glad! Frankly, I’m not suited for it. I inherited the job after Hoth,” he said, slightly defensive, just in case she didn’t remember.

Mothma felt the muscles at the back of her own neck loosen slightly. She’d been wary about this encounter, worried about how to handle him, but he wasn’t stupid, just misplaced. Now to the next step. “Then I have a new job for you. I want you to return to what you were doing before—supply and logistics.”

He brightened up. “Commander, that would be a pleasure.”

“Good. Colonel Davan, who has been working it, needs your experience and he will report to you.” She knew she was on safe ground.with her proof of a staff; Davan had asked for help and mentioned General Issahm by name.

The man nodded, his expression satisfied. And yet, he still asked, “Who will take over Intelligence and planning for raids? Major Madine?”

She gave a dismissive wave. “No. He’s not experienced enough in the Rebellion.”

“And it would be good if he was considered someone devoted to our cause,” Issahm said with edged satisfaction, “not someone whose come here because of you.”

Mothma stared at the general, coldly grateful for his honesty. If she didn’t care for the reminder of how high up the gossip ran, it did make this task easier. She smiled without warmth.“And isn’t that why I signed off on Captain Amman being on his team as you requested?”

The statement reverberated in the room. Issahm’s gaze went to the table, yet he instisted, “In my position as Intelligence—“

“Former,” she cut in.

“—it was done to ensure we had devotion to the cause.”

 _So. His willingness to attack is personal, not professional,_ Mothma decided. _Such a mix of power and submission has misled everyone. No matter where he serves, this needs to be snipped._

“Issahm, let’s be blunt” she said, recalculating her approach. “Most of our soldiers—even before Hoth—came to us not out of devotion to the Rebellion but out of hatred for what happened on Alderaan. Or they were running from the Empire because they’d done something that would get them punished, or swept into the Imperial Forces on the lowest level. Crix came the same way. I doubt he’d be here if the Emperor hadn’t ordered him to murder me. But, if there is one thing I know about Crix Madine after all these years, it is that when he makes up his mind, he doesn’t go back.”

“There’s nothing for him to go back to,” Issahm pointed out.

“There’s nothing for any of us to go back to,” she said. “If we are captured, we are dead—over a long time and painfully. So, we go forward. Our cause is just and right—“

“If we win—”

“When we win,” his Commander corrected him. “Never doubt that. We will build a better Republic. But first—we need to win these battles.”

Silence fell. Mothma was surprised by Issahm’s unwillingness to drop the subject, by his ability to operate as well as he had with such a broken spirit. She could hear Ceeli now, arguing that in a way, Issahm was more dangerous to Alliance needs than Crix Madine could ever be.

“Would you have done it?” he demanded. “Ordered Major Madine executed? For the safety of the Rebellion?”

She stared back. But she knew that his questions were mere echoes of after-hours talk, just as her replies would soon be. “Yes. Otherwise I wouldn’t have given the captain his orders.”

“And what would Madine think of that?”

“He would have understood why I did it,” she replied in a steely tone. “It didn’t happen and won’t in the future. Madine is with us.”

Again, Issahm held her gaze. Then, reserving his opinion on her claim, he backed down. “And no longer anyone I have to worry about,” he said with a slap of his hands on his knees. “I will keep the Alliance supplied with what it needs,” he sounded both relieved and resentful at the same time, clearly a talent of his, “and leave the rest to you, Mon Mothma.”

“Thank you, General.” She stood, he stood; and with a salute—the best she’d ever seen from him—Issahm left.

Mon Mothma closed her eyes; she sighed.

_And I would never have forgiven myself if I had had him killed._

But, one problem put away now. She turned and tapped her desk. Ackbar, she saw, was already back on deck and heading for the office; Quinx and Madine’s IDs moving with the admiral’s. No time for a cup of cha; and no one to get it for her, with the lieutenant sitting watch on Ceeli. Another problem, that.

She had worked with Montesi in the last horrible years of the Separatist Wars; had shared endless rationalizations of both their personal lives, on and off Chandrila; and had relied on the Alderaani’s support for over twenty years of plotting and conniving for the Alliance. Mothma had never seen such need in the woman’s eyes, nor felt so clearly that any moment now, she might crumple to the floor.

Without question, she had to discuss who should fill the Intelligence spot with Ackbar before he left again, but immediately after, she needed to deal with Ceeli.

*****

”I didn’t expect a welcoming committee,” Quinx muttered to Madine when they stepped out of their shuttle onto the command ship receiving deck. Leading the crowd coming at them were Admiral Ackbar and several other high-ranking officers. Quickly, Quinx stepped forward and acknowledged their congratulations with good grace.

Madine, standing to one side, saw Amman speak with one of the Intelligence officers, then disappear into the crowd. Damn, but he wished he knew what was going on here. What was Amman, and why was he with Issahm’s men?

Office politics again. He wished he could ask Mothma.

_No chance for doing anything that stupid, son. You’re an apprentice again in this rebellion._

Quinx turned and gestured for him to come over. Madine complied, stepping past other members of the team already deep into excited descriptions of the raid for the _Alderaan_ ’s crew.

“This is Major Madine,” Quinx said to the Admiral who surveyed the saluting officer, then nodded for him to relax. “He planned the raid, and freed the prisoners.”

“I have just met one of them upstairs,” Ackbar boomed, blinking at Madine. “General Issahm brought one from the medical ship.”

“Ceeli Montesi?” Madine asked.

“We filed a report as soon as we heard,” Quinx said.

“Not everything can be planned for,” Ackbar said dismissively. “We were lucky this time. The Commander is speaking with General Issahm about it.”

Madine asked, “What about Counselor Montesi?”

Ackbar ignored his question “Come, you both must report to the Commander,” he said. “She’s awaiting you.”

They fell in step behind the elder Calamari, trailing through the crowds until they reached the corridors. Madine approved that two guards fell in step behind them. Security precautions seemed to be working for now.

At the outer room to Mon Mothma’s office. The Zabrak wasn’t at his desk. Madine was surprised; still, maybe they had come between shifts. One of Ackbar’s aides lifted his hand, but before he could say anything, the door swished open and Issahm appeared, walking briskly out into their midst.

 _He looks like he’s been released from prison,_ Madine thought.

The slight man’s step was lighter and he almost smiled when he saw Ackbar. The happy mood switched off when he saw Madine, but Issahm’s gaze didn’t linger. He turned to the Admiral. “She’s ready for you, sir.”

“Thank you, General,” Ackbar said. “You are not staying for the report?”

Issahm shook his head. “I have other duties now. Good work, Quinx. Gentlemen.” With that last comment, he strolled passed them out of the outer office.

Madine watched him leave, wondered what he meant. _Has someone come to their senses and ordered him to jump out of an airlock?_

But now, Ackbar was walking way, Quinx at his side. Madine stepped up quickly and followed them into Mon Mothma’s office. Once more he took up position behind Quinx, taking in the work tracings on the walls, the glowing holo of Alderaan that hung beneath a starsweep that was always lit, the ever present scent of meadowsweet.

She stood in front of her desk, looking firmly in control, looking….almost eager. “I’ve read the report, now tell me about the raid,” she said, her gaze going to Quinx then Madine. “How can we do more of them—and better?”

“Madine, go ahead,” Quinx ordered.

He hadn’t expected this but rose to the demand. “It went smoothly because they were taken totally by surprise, Commander. The ships were taken over as planned, and the officers were locked in the cells. When the prison ships reaches Kessel, the commander there will order identification, and when there’s no response…” he shrugged. “The Empire has procedures and this will cause some heartburn.

“Fleet will beef things up in that sector, assuming that we will try again.” Madine paused. “We have to try for another target.”

“We need more supplies, more ship,” she challenged, adding. “Why did you release the Imperial ships?”

“Why did you leave the soldiers alive?” Ackbar rumbled.

Madine addressed his Commander’s concerns first. “We destroyed one of the patrol vessels because we didn’t have time to modify it for our needs. The prison ship’s log will attest that both were destroyed; the other patrol vessel we brought back with us. We can use it on raids, or leave it as a booby trap. The uses are endless.

“As to why I left the Imperial captain and his officers alive,” he hesitated for a second, then spoke to Ackbar, “We are not pirates. Killing relatively harmless officers is not a way to get them to treat us as legitimate. If what we do can be cast that way, then we’ve lost already.”

The statement reverberated through the room. He saw Mothma give the slightest of nods; if he had ignored the tension in the room before, now it vanished. For him, at least. She understood where Issahm would never have.

Which reminded him; he added, “Major Quinx and I have reviewed the Montesi file.”

There was a pause.

Watching him carefully, Mon Mothma asked, “And her status?”

“She’ll need care,” he said directly to her, excluding both Calamari from their attention. “But she’s a survivor of Alderaan and of the Empire. I would trust her with your life.”

He knew she heard more than the mere words.

She smiled. “Then, thank you, gentlemen, for your raid. It’s exactly what we need.” Mothma walked back to her desk and sat down. She activated a schedule on the dark desk in front of her. “When can it happen again?”

“When General Issahm orders—“ Quinx started.

She cut him off. “General Issahm is no longer Intelligence chief—I am for the moment.”

Her statement rocked Madine, but it felt like a huge weight had rolled off his shoulders. No more Issahm. Now they could move forward.

“Take a cycle or more,” the Commander continued, “but I want—we need—more raids like this. We must resupply ourselves; we need to be able to attack.

“Well done,” she smiled again, then added a challenge. “For now.”

The soldiers laughed with proper respect and meeting was over

 _Well done indeed,_ Madine thought, although he kept the opinion to himself. He and Quinx saluted Mon Mothma and left the office.

*****

Mothma darkened the schedule. She glanced at the chair opposite her, but Ackbar did not sit. So, then, “Do you have a suggestion for Intelligence, Admiral?”

“Major Madine,” Ackbar said bluntly.

“He hadn’t been here long enough for everyone to accept him,” she replied. “A few more raids, and he’ll be acceptable. If he lives that long.”

“Do you expect him to die, Mon Mothma?” Ackbar rumbled.

She laughed. “I take nothing for granted, Admiral. Quinx may do; I’ll have to review his record.”

Ackbar shrugged. “There are others I’m sure, but Madine would be best. I leave it up to you, Senator.”

“Very well. Then it will be my first job as Intelligence.” Mothma reflected a moment, then stood. “I have to deal with my aide, both of them,” she said, “And so, if you will excuse me, Admiral…”

He nodded. “I will be with Quinx and Madine and the others,” Ackbar said, booming happily, as he preceded her out of the room. “I believe there is going to be a celebration.”

_The first successful raid. Yes, we should celebrate._

Mothma smiled. “Of course! Please keep me informed, Admiral.”

“Oh, I will, Commander.”

They separated at the door of the briefing room.

  
*****

Ceeli looked over at the Zabrak who waited stoically across from her in the small room.

It returned her gaze rather eagerly.

“How long have you worked with the Commander, Lieutenant—?”

“Kareki. Ten weeks.”

 _That’s odd,_ Montesi wondered. _Does his race have a different sense of time passage? Don’t they follow the old time measures?_

“Who did you –“

“I fought with SpecForce Squad Echo-4. Did you enjoy your work with the Commander?” Its tone was hopeful.

“Yes, I did,” Ceeli said, hearing the possessiveness in her own voice and almost regretting it.

“Good.”

 _So,_ she breathed easier, _we understand each other._

Oh, but Ceeli wanted to get her hands on the briefing room console desk top and cruise through all she had missed. Instead, she amused herself by calculating the micro-seconds between acting on her intent and a Zabrak’s well-documented reaction time.

Then, the door slid open. Mon Mothma came in alone, a smile appearing as she looked at Ceeli. She sat down opposite Montesi and held out her hands, Alderaani-style, but with a Chandrila bend to the wrist that made Ceeli catch her breath.

She grasped Mothma’s hands in return, feeling the firm grip, feeling her own control slipping again.

“Ceeli, I want you to go back to the med ship and get the care you need,” Mothma said simply, watching for a reaction, then catching herself watching and adding, “Then I want you back here because I need you desperately.”

“Come soon,” Kareki said unexpectedly. Both women jumped. “Very soon.”

Mothma laughed. “He’s the eighth so far,” she said in a fake whisper. Kareki sniffed, then looked away quickly, embarrassed at his impatience.

Ceeli laughed, too. She sounded giddy, she knew, from the wide eyes Mothma gave her. Very out of character for either of them when in the presence of….well, anyone but each other and then only after so many years. It felt so very good to laugh, though, and it had been so long since sharing a joke—gods, since before she left on that last futile search for Tavel.

“You’ve gone through how many?” She managed to drop her voice, but not ridiculously low because she knew damn well the Zabrak understood the joke, if not her indifference to lack of protocol. “In four weeks?”

Mothma sat very still, looking very solemn now. “Twelve,” was all she said.

That didn’t make sense. Ceeli still felt a chuckle starting, but another feeling rose to stop it, the sort of feeling that a person needed to listen to, an instinct telling you—for example—that Issahm had been wrong to bring her here, however much she wanted, needed, to come.

Mothma followed her thoughts. “Twelve weeks, Ceeli,” she said quietly.

“That’s not possible. I kept track.”

“I’m sure you did. Twelve weeks.”

Montesi looked away, over the Commander’s shoulder, the other one from where the Zabrak sat. Twelve weeks.

She supposed that made sense: time for everyone to get away after Hoth and then reassemble at an uncompromised rendezvous point; time for Mothma to recover from her own ordeal, for Madine to be cleared to even participate as a troop on a raid, let alone assist in leading one.

Time to have buried that holovid well enough for anyone to follow his orders. Suddenly she wondered how many interrogations had she been forced to watch it? How many hours alone in a cell had she spent convincing herself that it was bogus? Montesi pulled her hands free, touched the side of her neck.

“They must have been busy cutting my hair,” she murmured. “It grows so damn fast.”

“They must have known that was the only way you’d ever try a practical style.”

They both managed a smile, but Ceeli’s tasted salty. They both ignored the tears.

“Twelve weeks then.”

“Yes.”

“I should think our people would be practiced enough by now to get me back here sooner than that.”

“They had better be. I need my fighters in the field, not in my files.”

Ceeli managed to reclaim a bit of composure. It was a very old joke and never in the best of taste. Especially now, with that damn holo—Montesi caught the loop, bit it back. “I think I’d like an escort back to medical, Commander.”

“I think –“ Mothma gave the slightest glance over her shoulder; the Zabrack returned a very slight nod. “That it’s a good idea to start soonest. I need you here, Ceeli.”

“Yes, you do.”

Mothma stood, offered a hand to Montesi, who did not take it. Now not, maybe later. The Zabracks were terrible gossips and a hand could turn into an embrace that might not pass the sister test in the Zabrack’s eyes.

”Lieutenant Karaki, if you will?” Mothma stepped back.

Ceeli stood, took a breath and dropped her shoulders for balance, stealing an extra second with Mothma—just a sliver more of proof that she was home.

The full story of what had happened would wait, she supposed. Or come out in treatment. Montesi closed her eyes.

_Twelve weeks. How much longer before I’m back?_

“This way, Counselor.” The Zabrak lifted its hand toward the door. The wall slid open, let them step through, and then shut on the scent of meadowsweet and a soft voice.

“Welcome home, Ceeli.”

  
*****

Nearly eight weeks passed before the psych droid released Ceeli Montesi for return to the Command ship. When she finally appeared at her office, the Zabrak’s tattoos fairly glowed at the fulfillment of his redemption. Ceeli’s tie-in was as succinct as the lieutenant could make it. She didn't have the heart to tell him that it was unlikely that he'd be in a combat situation anytime soon— as the Commander's aide, he knew too much.

Much had changed for everyone involved in the prison ship rescue, although a good two days passed before Montesi felt secure enough in her grasp of what was due yesterday to track down specifics.

Kareki was more than happy to expound on the affairs of Majors Quinx and Madine. The two officers had planned and executed several hard-hitting raids, sending psychic noise levels among Command personnel and the fighter squadron to pitches only Acala rebels could hear.

Mon Mothma herself had already confirmed, and added to, the rumor that Ceeli had picked up on the shuttle back to the medical cruiser: not only had the price on Madine’s head risen to the level of other members of the Rebellion— Princess Leia, Lando Calrissian, and even Mothma herself—but Madine had laughed uproariously when he heard about the company he was keeping.

The major was no longer actively fighting, though. By mid-shift of the third day, Ceeli found and read the report to Mothma about a raid that was severely compromised by his presence. After that, Madine wasn’t willing to be a liability. He still had his detractors—it hadn’t been difficult to restart Ceeli’s own lines of information on the ALDERAAN—but it was safe enough to say that the Corellian was now fully accepted by the Rebel leaders, and the troopers who knew him in action. Madine had moved into the Intelligence and planning position for which he was most suited for; no surprise, there.

She'd visited Grandia on the medical ship until his ankle healed, then their ways parted. The captain was gone for the moment on an Intelligence mission with another captain, Amman, of whom Kareki thought most highly as a fighter. She hoped Grandia would come home safe.

Ceeli was a week back running Mothma’s office when Crix Madine stopped by her desk before going into a planning strategy meeting with the other senior officers.

“I have a question for you, Counselor,” he began, then paused until she turned away from a maze of personnel trees she had running on the live wall and could give him her full attention. “You don’t have to give me an answer now; later will do.”

“Ask away, _General_ Madine,” she advised, not hiding a touch of amusement born in any number of layers of interests she knew he held.

He smiled just as wickedly. “I need to know: how would you prefer Ferlins? Dead or alive?”

Taken aback, Montesi hesitated. In those few seconds, Madine flashed a careless salute and walked away to the meeting.

Ceeli waved the wall to black. She sat down. At the moment, her heart wouldn’t let her mind grasp the parameters of his question.

She’d have to find a steel-shielded room, sit on a cold slab and think about it for a good long while.

*****

On a rainy night on Chandrila, a slightly portly man stepped inside a pawnshop near the capitol city’s portside pleasure district.

“I want to buy that,” he said hesitantly stabbing a finger at a necklace of black stones with glittering silver chips and a moonstone clasp.

The pawnbroker shrugged. “It’s yours. 500 credits.”

Dohn Caardert nodded. He paid for it with a non-traceable slip, pocketed the jewelry, and walked out hoping that the pawnbroker wouldn’t report him.

He had seen the necklace in the window several weeks ago. Caardert recognized the necklace as Ceeli’s the moment it showed up. Given to her it by Queen Breha of Alderaan, it was on sale like so many things that Ferlins had taken from storage after they arrested Mon Mothma’s staff and ransacked their homes. The officer was profiting well from his arrests.

Dohn clenched his hand around the necklace and felt the clasp bite into his palm. His wife wouldn’t approve of him owning such a dangerous piece of jewelry, however, he had to have it.

If it took him the rest of his life, Ferlins was going to be held to justice for arresting Ceeli.

_One way or another, Caardert was going to make sure of it._


End file.
